FRESH    FIELDS 


BY 


JOHN  BURROUGHS 

AUTHOR  OF  "WAKB   ROBIN,"   "  WINTER   SUNSHINE,"  "BIRDS  AND 
POETS,"  "  LOCUSTS  AMD  WILD  HONEY,"  AND  -  PBPACTON  " 


SEVENTH    EDITION 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

Cfc  firtjcrsiDe  Prrcs,  Cambridge 

1887 


9SZ 


BT  JOHN   BURROUGHS. 
AUrigb* 


Tkt  Rivtrtidt  pm», 
Electrotype^  and  PriaUd  by  II.  O.  1  loach U»  A  Oa 


CONTENTS. 


PACT 
NATURE  in  ENGLAND 1 

ENGLISH  WOODS:  A  CONTRAST        »       .       .       .         37 

IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY 49 

A  HUNT  FOB  THB  NIGHTINGALE      ....         83 

EXOLI8H   AND   AMERICA*    SONG-BlRDS  .  .  .121 

IMPRESSIONS  or  BOMB  ENGLISH  BIRDS   .  .       141 

IK  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY 159 

A  GLANCE  AT  BRITISH  WILD  FLO  WEBS         .       .  173 

BRITISH  FERTILITY 191 

A  SUNDAY  IN  CHBTHB  Row 217 

AT  SEA  .  287 


—       —    ea 


X    V 


—y_rr 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

I. 

THE  first  whiff  we  got  of  transatlantic  nature  was. 
the  peaty  breath  of  the  peasant  chimneys  of  Ireland 
while  we  were  yet  many  miles  at  sea.    What  a  home- 
like, fireside  smell  it  was ;  it  seemed  to  make  some- 
thing long  forgotten  stir  within  one.    One  recognizes 
it  as  a  characteristic  Old  World  odor,  it  savors  so  of 
the  soil  and  of  a  ripe  and  mellow  antiquity.     I  know 
no  other  fuel  that  yields  so  agreeable  a  perfume  as 
peat.     Unless  the  Irishman  in  one  has  dwindled  to  ft 
very  small  fraction,  he  will  be  pretty  sure  to  dilate 
lostrils  and  feel  some  dim  awakening  of  memory 
itching  the  scent  of  this  ancestral  fuel.    The  fat, 
nous  peat,  the  pith  and  marrow  of  ages  of  vege- 
table growth,  how  typical  it  is  of  much  that  lies  there 
before  us  in  the  elder  world ;  of  the  slow  ripenings 
accumulations,  of  extinct  life  and  forms,  decayed 
civilizations,  of  ten  thousand  growths  and  achieve- 
ments of  the  hand  and  soul  of  man,  now  reduced  to 
tin  ir  last  modicum  of  fertilizing  mould. 

With  the  breath  of  the  chimney  there  came  pres- 
ently the  chimney-swallow,  and  dropped  much  fa- 
tigued upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer.  It  was  a  still 
more  welcome  and  suggestive  token:  the  bird  of 


4  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

Virgil  and  of  Theocritus,  acquainted  with  every  cot- 
tage roof  and  chimney  in  Europe,  and  with  the  ruined 
abbeys  and  castle  walls.  Except  its  lighter-colored 
breast,  it  seemed  identical  with  our  barn-swallow; 
its  little  black  cap  appeared  pulled  down  over  its 
eyes  in  the  same  manner,  and  its  glossy  steel-blue 
coat,  its  forked  tail,  its  infantile  feet,  and  its  cheerful 
twitter  were  the  same.  But  its  habits  are  different ; 
for  in  Europe  this  swallow  builds  in  chimneys,  and 
the  bird  that  answers  to  our  chimney-swallow,  or 
swift,  builds  in  crevices  in  barns  and  houses. 

We  did  not  suspect  we  had  taken  aboard  our  pilot 
in  the  little  swallow,  yet  so  it  proved ;  this  light  nav- 
igator always  hails  from  the  port  of  bright,  warm 
skies ;  and  the  next  morning  we  found  ourselves  sail- 
ing between  shores  basking  in  full  summer  sunshine. 
Those  who,  after  ten  days  of  sorrowing  and  fasting  in 
the  desert  of  the  ocean,  have  sailed  up  the  Frith  of 
Clyde,  and  thence  up  the  Clyde  to  Glasgow,  on  the 
morning  of  a  perfect  mid-May  day,  the  sky  all  sun- 
shine, the  earth  all  verdure,  know  what  this  experi- 
ence is,;  and  only  those  can  know  it.  It  takes  a 
good  many  foul  days  in  Scotland  to  breed  one  fair 
one ;  but  when  the  fair  day  does  come,  it  is  worth 
the  price  paid  for  it.  The  soul  and  sentiment  of  all 
fair  weather  is  in  it ;  it  is  the  flowering  of  the  mete- 
orological influences,  the  rose  on  this  thorn  of  rain 
and  mist.  These  fair  days,  I  was  told,  may  be  quite 
confidently  looked  for  in  May ;  we  were  so  fortu- 
nate as  to  experience  a  series  of  them,  and  the  day 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  5 

we  entered  port  was  such  a  one  as  you  would  select 
from  a  hundred. 

The  traveler  is  in  a  mood  to  be  pleased  after  clear- 
ing the  Atlantic  gulf ;  the  eye  in  its  exuberance  is  full 
of  caresses  and  flattery,  and  the  deck  of  a  steamer  is 
a  rare  vantage-ground  on  any  occasion  of  sight-see- 
ing ;  it  affords  just  the  isolation  and  elevation  needed. 
Yet  fully  discounting  these  favorable  conditions,  the 
fact  remains  that  Scotch  sunshine  is  bewitching,  and 
that  the  scenery  of  the  Clyde  is  unequaled  by  any 
other  approach  to  Europe.  It  is  Europe,  abridged 
and  assorted  and  passed  before  you  in  the  space  of 
a  few  hours :  the  highlands  and  lochs  and  castle- 
crowned  crags  on  the  one  hand ;  and  the  lowlands, 
with  their  parks  and  farms,  their  manor  halls  and 
matchless  verdure,  on  the  other.  The  eye  is  conserv- 
ative, and  loves  a  look  of  permanence  and  order,  of 
peace  and  contentment ;  and  these  Scotch  shores, 
with  their  stone  houses,  compact  masonry,  clean 
fields,  grazing  herds,  ivied  walls,  massive  foliage,  per- 
feet  roads,  verdant  mountains,  etc.,  fill  all  the  condi- 
tions. We  pause  an  hour  in  front  of  Greenock,  and 
then,  on  the  crest  of  the  tide,  make  our  way  slowly 
upward.  The  landscape  closes  around  us.  We  can 
almost  hear  the  cattle  ripping  off  the  lush  grass  in 
the  fields.  One  feels  as  if  he  could  eat  grass  himself. 
It  is  a  pastoral  paradise.  We  can  see  the  daisies  and 
buttercups ;  and  from  above  a  meadow  on  the  right, 
a  part  of  the  song  of  a  sky-lark  reaches  my  ear.  In- 
deed, not  a  little  of  the  charm  and  novelty  of  this 


0  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

part  of  the  voyage  was  the  impression  it  made  as  of 
going  afield  in  an  ocean  steamer.  We  had  suddenly 
passed  from  a  wilderness  of  waters  into  a  verdurous, 
sunlit  landscape,  where  scarcely  any  water  was  visi- 
ble. The  Clyde,  soon  after  you  leave  Greenock,  be- 
comes little  more  than  a  large,  deep  canal,  inclosed 
between  meadow  banks,  and  from  the  deck  of  the 
great  steamer  only  the  most  charming  rural  sights 
and  sounds  greet  you.  You  are  at  sea  amid  verdant 
parks  and  fields  of  clover  and  grain.  You  behold 
farm  occupations  —  sowing,  planting,  plowing  —  as 
from  the  middle  of  the  Atlantic.  Playful  heifers  and 
skipping  lambs  take  the  place  of  the  leaping  dolphins 
and  the  basking  sword-fish.  The  ship  steers  her  way 
amid  turnip-fields  and  broad  acres  of  newly  planted 
potatoes.  You  are  not  surprised  that  she  needs  pilot- 
ing. A  little  tug  with  a  rope  at  her  bow  pulls  her 
first  this  way  and  then  that,  while  one  at  her  stern 
nudges  her  right  flank  and  then  her  left.  Presently 
we  come  to  the  ship  -  building  yards  of  the  Clyde, 
where  rural,  pastoral  scenes  are  strangely  mingled 
with  those  of  quite  another  sort.  "  First  a  cow  and 
then  an  iron  ship,"  as  one  of  the  voyagers  observed. 
Here  a  pasture,  or  a  meadow,  or  a  field  of  wheat  or 
oats,  and  close  beside  it,  without  an  inch  of  waste  or 
neutral  ground  between,  rise  the  skeletons  of  innu- 
merable ships,  like  a  forest  of  slender  growths  of  iron, 
with  the  workmen  hammering  amid  it  like  so  many 
noisy  woodpeckers.  It  is  doubtful  if  such  a  scene 
can  be  witnessed  anywhere  else  in  the  world  —  an 


NATURE  IN   ENGLAND.  7 

enormous  mechanical,  commercial,  and  architectural 
interest,  alternating  with  the  quiet  and  simplicity  of 
inland  farms  and  home  occupations.  You  could  leap 
from  the  deck  of  a  half-finished  ocean  steamer  into  a 
field  of  waving  wheat  or  Winchester  beans.  These 
vast  ship-yards  appear  to  be  set  down  here  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Clyde  without  any  interference  with  the 
natural  surroundings  of  the  place. 

Of  the  factories  and  foundries  that  put  this  iron  in 
shape  you  get  no  hint ;  here  the  ships  rise  as  if  they 
sprouted  from  the  soil,  without  waste  or  litter,  but 
with  an  incessant  din.  They  stand  as  thickly  as  a 
row  of  cattle  in  stanchions,  almost  touching  each 
other,  and  in  all  stages  of  development.  Now  and 
then  a  stall  will  be  vacant,  the  ship  having  just  been 
launched,  and  others  will  be  standing  with  flags  flying 
and  timbers  greased  or  soaped,  ready  to  take  to  the 
water  at  the  word.  Two  such,  both  large  ocean 
steamers,  waited  for  us  to  pass.  We  looked  back, 
saw  the  last  block  or  wedge  knocked  away  from  one 
of  them,  and  the  monster  ship  sauntered  down  to  the 
water  and  glided  out  into  the  current  in  the  most 
gentle,  nonchalant  way  imaginable.  I  wondered  at 
her  slow  pace,  and  at  the  grace  and  composure  with 
which  she  took  to  the  water;  the  problem  nicely 
studied  and  solved — just  power  enough,  and  not  an 
ounce  to  spare.  The  vessels  are  launched  diagonally 
up  or  down  stream,  on  account  of  the  narrowness  of 
the  channel.  But  to  see  such  a  brood  of  ships,  the 
largest  in  the  world,  hatched  upon  the  banks  of  such 


8  NATURE   IN  ENGLAND. 

a  placid  little  river,  amid  such  quiet  country  scenes, 
is  a  novel  experience.  |But  this  is  Britain:  a  little 
island,  with  little  lakes,  little  rivers,  quiet,  bosky 
fields,  but  mighty  interests  and  power  that  reach 
round  the  world.  \  I  was  conscious  that  the  same 
scene  at  home  would  have  been  less  pleasing.  It 
would  not  have  been  so  compact  and  tidy.  There 
would  not  have  been  a  garden  of  ships  and  a  garden 
of  turnips  side  by  side ;  hay-makers  and  ship-builders 
in  adjoining  fields;  milch-cows  and  iron  steamers 
seeking  the  water  within  sight  of  each  other.  We 
leave  wide  margins  and  ragged  edges  in  this  country, 
and  both  man  and  nature  sprawl  about  at  greater 
lengths  than  in  the  Old  World. 

For  the  rest  I  was  perhaps  least  prepared  for  the 
utter  tranquillity,  and  shall  I  say  domesticity,  of  the 
mountains.  At  a  distance  they  appear  to  be  covered 
with  a  tender  green  mould  that  one  could  brush  away 
with  his  hand.  On  nearer  approach  it  is  seen  to  be 
grass.  They  look  nearly  as  rural  and  pastoral  as  the 
fields.  Goat  Fell  is  steep  and  stony,  but  even  it 
does  not  have  a  wild  and  barren  look.  At  home, 
one  thinks  of  a  mountain  as  either  a  vast  pile  of  bar- 
ren, frowning  rocks  and  precipices,  or  else  a  steep 
acclivity  covered  with  a  tangle  of  primitive  forest 
timber.  But  here,  the  mountains  are  high,  grassy 
sheep-walks,  smooth,  treeless,  rounded,  and  as  green 
as  if  dipped  in  a  fountain  of  perpetual  spring.  I  did 
not  wish  my  Catskills  any  different ;  but  I  wondered 
what  would  need  to  be  done  to  them  to  make  them 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  9 

look  like  these  Scotch  highlands.  Cut  away  their 
forests,  rub  down  all  inequalities  in  their  surfaces, 
pulverizing  their  loose  bowlders,  turf  them  over, 
leaving  the  rock  to  show  through  here  and  there; 
then,  with  a  few  large  black  patches  to  represent  the 
heather,  and  the  softening  and  ameliorating  effect  of 
a  mild,  humid  climate,  they  might  in  time  come  to 
bear  some  resemblance  to  these  shepherd  mountains. 
Then  over  all  the  landscape  is  that  new  look  —  that 
mellow,  legendary,  half-human  expression  which  na- 
ture wears  in  these  ancestral  lands,  an  expression 
familiar  in  pictures  and  in  literature,  but  which  a 
native  of  our  side  of  the  Atlantic  has  never  before 
seen  in  gross,  material  objects  and  open-air  spaces, 
—  the  added  charm  of  the  sentiment  of  time  and 
human  history,  the  ripening  and  ameliorating  influ- 
ence of  long  ages  of  close  and  loving  occupation  of 
the  soil,  —  naturally,  a  deep,  fertile  soil  under  a  mild, 
very  humid  climate. 

There  is  an  unexpected,  an  unexplained  lure  and 
attraction  in  the  landscape,  a  pensive,  reminiscent 
feeling  in  the  air  itself.  Nature  has  grown  mellow 
under  these  humid  skies,  as  in  our  fiercer  climate  she 
grows  harsh  and  severe.  One  sees  at  once  why  this 
fragrant  Old  World  has  so  dominated  the  affections 
and  the  imagination  of  our  artists  and  poets ;  it  is  sat- 
urated with  human  qualities ;  it  is  unctuous  with  the 
ripeness  of  ages,  the  very  marrow-fat  of  time. 


10  NATUBE  IN  ENGLAND. 


n. 

I  HAD  come  to  Great  Britain  less  to  see  the  noted 
sights  and  places,  than  to  observe  the  general  face  of 
nature.  I  wanted  to  steep  myself  long  and  well  in 
that  mellow,  benign  landscape,  and  put  to  further 
tests  the  impressions  I  had  got  of  it  during  a  hasty 
visit  one  autumn,  eleven  years  before.  Hence  I  was 
mainly  intent  on  roaming  about  the  country,  it  mat- 
tered little  where.  Like  an  attic  stored  with  relics 
and  heir-looms,  there  is  no  place  in  England  where 
you  cannot  instantly  turn  from  nature  to  scenes  and 
places  of  deep  historical  or  legendary  or  artistic  in- 
terest. 

My  journal  of  travel  is  a  brief  one,  and  keeps  to 
a  few  of  the  main  lines.  After  spending  a  couple  of 
days  in  Glasgow,  we  went  down  to  Alloway,  in 
Burns's  country,  and  had  our  first  taste  of  the  beauty 
and  sweetness  of  rural  Britain,  and  of  the  privacy 
and  comfort  of  a  little  Scotch  inn.  The  weather  was 
exceptionally  fair,  and  the  mellow  Ayrshire  land- 
scape, threaded  by  the  Doon,  a  perpetual  delight. 
Thence  we  went  north  on  a  short  tour  through  the 
Highlands,  —  up  Loch  Lomond,  down  Loch  Katrine, 
and  through  the  Trosachs  to  Callander,  and  thence 
to  Stirling  and  Edinburgh.  After  a  few  days  in  the 
Scqtch  capital  we  set  out  for  Carlyle's  country,  where 
we  passed  five  delightful  days.  The  next  week  found 
us  in  Wordsworth's  land,  and  the  10th  of  Jun<?  'in 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  11 

London.  After  a  week  here  I  went  down  into  Sur- 
rey and  Hants,  in  quest  of  the  nightingale,  for  four 
or  five  days.  Till  the  middle  of  July  I  hovered  about 
London,  making  frequent  excursions  into  the  coun- 
try, —  east,  south,  north,  west,  and  once  across  the 
channel  into  France,  where  I  had  a  long  walk  over 
the  hills  about  Boulogne.  July  15th  we  began  our 
return  journey  northward,  stopping  a  few  days  at 
Stratford,  where  I  found  the  Red  Horse  Inn  sadly  de- 
generated from  excess  of  travel.  Thence  again  into 
the  Lake  region  for  a  longer  stay.  From  Grasmere 
we  went  into  north  Wales,  and  did  the  usual  tour- 
ing and  sight-seeing  around  and  over  the  mountains. 
The  last  week  of  July  we  were  again  in  Glasgow, 
from  which  port  we  sailed  on  our  homeward  voyage 
July  29th. 

With  a  suitable  companion,  I  should  probably 
have  made  many  long  pedestrian  tours.  As  it  was, 
I  took  many  short  but  delightful  walks  both  in  Eng- 
land and  Scotland,  with  a  half  day's  walk  in  the 
north  of  Ireland  about  Moville.  'T  is  an  admirable 
country  to  walk  in,  —  the  roads  are  so  dry  and  smooth 
and  of  such  easy  grade,  the  foot-paths  so  numerous 
and  so  bold,  and  the  climate  so  cool  and  tonic.  One 
night,  with  a  friend,  I  walked  from  Rochester  to 
Maidstone,  part  of  the  way  in  a  slow  rain  and  part 
of  the  way  in  the  darkness.  We  had  proposed  to 
put  up  at  some  one  of  the  little  inns  on  the  road,  and 
get  a  view  of  the  weald  of  Kent  in  the  morning ;  but 
the  inns  refused  us  entertainment,  and  we  were  com- 


12  NATUKE  IN  ENGLAND. 

polled  to  do  the  eight  miles  at  night,  stepping  off  very 
lively  the  last  four  in  order  to  reach  Maidstone  before 
the  hotels  were  shut  up,  which  takes  place  at  eleven 
o'clock.  I  learned  this  night  how  fragrant  the  Eng- 
lish elder  is  while  in  bloom,  and  that  distance  lends 
enchantment  to  the  smell.  When  I  plucked  the  flow- 
ers, which  seemed  precisely  like  our  own,  the  odor 
was  rank  and  disagreeable ;  but  at  the  distance  of  a 
few  yards  it  floated  upon  the  moist  air,  a  spicy  and 
pleasing  perfume.  The  elder  here  grows  to  be  a  ver- 
itable tree ;  I  saw  specimens  seven  or  eight  inches  in 
diameter  and  twenty  feet  high.  In  the  morning  we 
walked  back  by  a  different  route,  taking  in  Boxley 
Church,  where  the  pilgrims  used  to  pause  on  their 
way  to  Canterbury,  and  getting  many  good  views  of 
Kent  grain-fields  and  hop-yards.  Sometimes  the  road 
wound  through  the  landscape  like  a  foot-path,  with 
nothing  between  it  and  the  rank  growing  crops.  An 
occasional  newly -plowed  field  presented  a  curious 
appearance.  The  soil  is  upon  the  chalk  formation, 
and  is  full  of  large  fragments  of  flint.  These  work 
out  upon  the  surface,  and,  being  white  and  full  of 
articulations  and  processes,  give  to  the  ground  the 
appearance  of  being  thickly  strewn  with  bones,  —  with 
thigh  bones  greatly  foreshortened.  Yet  these  old 
bones  in  skillful  hands  make  a  most  effective  building 
material.  They  appear  in  all  the  old  churches  and 
ancient  buildings  in  the  south  of  England.  Broken 
squarely  off,  the  flint  shows  a  fine  semi-transparent 
surface  that,  in  combination  with  coarser  material, 


NATURE  IN  ENG 

has  a  remarkable  crystalline  effect.  One  of  the  most 
delicious  bits  of  architectural  decoration  I  saw  in 
England  was  produced,  in  the  front  wall  of  one  of 
the  old  buildings  attached  to  the  cathedral  at  Can- 
terbury, by  little  squares  of  these  flints  in  brick  panel- 
work.  The  cool,  pellucid,  illuminating  effect  of  the 
flint  was  just  the  proper  foil  to  the  warm,  glowing, 
livid  brick. 

From  Rochester  we  walked  to  Gravesend,  over 
Gad's  Hill ;  the  day  soft  and  warm,  half  sunshine, 
half  shadow ;  the  air  full  of  the  songs  of  sky-larks ;  a 
rich,  fertile  landscape  all  about  us ;  the  waving  wheat 
just  in  bloom,  dashed  with  scarlet  poppies ;  and  pres- 
ently, on  the  right,  the  Thames  in  view  dotted  with 
vessels.  Seldom  any  cattle  or  grazing  herds  in  Kent ; 
the  ground  is  too  valuable  ;  it  is  all  given  up  to  wheat, 
oats,  barley,  hops,  fruit,  and  various  garden-produce. 

A  few  days  later  we  walked  from  Feversham  to 
Canterbury,  and  from  the  top  of  Harbledown  hill 
saw  the  magnificent  cathedral  suddenly  break  upon 
us  as  it  did  upon  the  foot-sore  and  worshipful  pil- 
grims centuries  ago.  At  this  point,  it  is  said,  they 
knelt  down,  which  seems  quite  probable,  the  view  is 
so  imposing.  The  cathedral  stands  out  from  and 
above  the  city,  as  if  the  latter  were  the  foundation 
upon  which  it  rested.  On  this  walk  we  passed  several 
of  the  famous  cherry  orchards  of  Kent,  the  thriftiest 
trees  and  the  finest  fruit  I  ever  saw.  We  invaded 
one  of  the  orchards,  and  proposed  to  purchase  some 
of  the  fruit  of  the  men  engaged  in  gathering  it.  But 


14  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

they  refused  to  sell  it ;  had  no  right  to  do  so,  they 
said;  but  one  of  them  followed  us  across  the  or- 
chard, and  said  in  a  confidential  way  that  he  would 
see  that  we  had  some  cherries.  He  filled  my  com- 
panion's hat,  and  accepted  our  shilling  with  alacrity. 
In  getting  back  into  the  highway,  over  the  wire 
fence,  I  got  my  clothes  well  tarred  before  I  was 
aware  of  it.  The  fence  proved  to  be  well  besmeared 
with  a  mixture  of  tar  and  grease,  —  an  ingenious 
device  for  marking  trespassers.  We  sat  in  the  shade 
of  a  tree  and  ate  our  fruit  and  scraped  our  clothes, 
while  a  troop  of  bicyclists  filed  by.  About  the  best 
glimpses  I  had  of  Canterbury  cathedral  —  after  the 
first  view  from  Harbledown  hill  —  were  obtained 
while  lying  upon  my  back  on  the  grass,  under  the 
shadow  of  its  walls,  and  gazing  up  at  the  jackdaws 
flying  about  the  central  tower  and  going  out  and  in 
weather-worn  openings  three  hundred  feet  above  me. 
There  seemed  to  be  some  wild,  pinnacled  mountain 
peak  or  rocky  ledge  up  there  toward  the  sky,  where 
the  fowls  of  the  air  had  made  their  nests,  secure  from 
molestation.  The  way  the  birds  make  themselves  at 
home  about  these  vast  architectural  piles  is  very 
pleasing.  Doves,  starlings,  jackdaws,  swallows,  spar- 
rows take  to  them  as  to  a  wood  or  to  a  cliff.  If 
there  were  only  something  to  give  a  corresponding 
touch  of  nature  or  a  throb  of  life  inside !  But  their 
interiors  are  only  impressive  sepulchres,  tombs  within 
a  tomb.  Your  own  footfalls  seem  like  the  echo  of 
past  ages.  These  cathedrals  belong  to  the  pleisto- 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  15 

cene  period  of  man's  religious  history,  the  period 
of  gigantic  forms.  How  vast,  how  monstrous,  how 
terrible  in  beauty  and  power !  but  in  our  day  as 
empty  and  dead  as  the  shells  upon  the  shore.  The 
cold,  thin  ecclesiasticisrn  that  now  masquerades  in 
them  hardly  disturbs  the  dust  in  their  central  aisles. 
I  saw  five  worshipers  at  the  choral  service  in  Can- 
terbury, and  about  the  same  number  of  curious  spec- 
tators. For  my  part,  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off 
the  remnants  of  some  of  the  old  stained  windows  up 
aloft.  If  I  worshiped  at  all,  it  was  my  devout  ad- 
miration of  those  superb  relics.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  about  the  faith  that  inspired  those.  Below 
them  were  some  gorgeous  modern  memorial  win- 
dows :  stained  glass,  indeed  !  loud,  garish,  thin, 
painty ;  while  these  were  like  a  combination  of  pre- 
cious stones  and  gems,  full  of  depth  and  richness  of 
tone,  and,  above  all,  serious,  not  courting  your  atten- 
tion. My  eye  was  not  much  taken  with  them  at 
first,  and  not  till  after  it  had  recoiled  from  the  hard, 
thin  glare  in  my  immediate  front. 

From  Canterbury  I  went  to  Dover,  and  spent 
part  of  a  day  walking  along  the  cliffs  to  Folkestone. 
There  is  a  good  foot-path  that  skirts  the  edge  of  the 
cliffs,  and  it  is  much  frequented.  It  is  characteristic 
of  the  compactness  and  neatness  of  this  little  island 
that  there  is  not  an  inch  of  waste  land  along  this  sea 
margin;  the  fertile  rolling  landscape,  waving  with 
wheat  and  barley,  and,  with  grass  just  ready  for  the 
Bcythe,  is  cut  squarely  off  by  the  sea ;  the  plow  and 


16  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

the  reaper  come  to  the  very  brink  of  the  chalky  cliffs. 
As  you  sit  down  on  Shakespeare's  Cliff,  with  your 
feet  dangling  in  the  air  at  a  height  of  three  hundred 
and  fifty  feet,  you  can  reach  back  and  pluck  the  grain 
heads  and  the  scarlet  poppies.  Never  have  I  seen 
such  quiet  pastoral  beauty  take  such  a  sudden  leap 
into  space.  Yet  the  scene  is  tame,  in  one  sense : 
there  is  no  hint  of  the  wild  and  the  savage ;  the  rock 
is  soft  and  friable,  a  kind  of  chalky  bread,  which  the 
sea  devours  readily ;  the  hills  are  like  freshly  cut 
loaves  ;  slice  after  slice  has  been  eaten  away  by  the 
hungry  elements.  Sitting  here,  I  saw  no  "crows 
and  choughs  "  winging  "  the  mid-way  air,"  but  a  spe- 
cies of  hawk,  "  haggards  of  the  rocks,"  were  disturbed 
in  the  niches  beneath  me,  and  flew  along  from  point 
to  point. 

"  The  murmuring  surge, 

That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high." 

I  had  wondered  why  Shakespeare  had  made  his  sea- 
shores pebbly  instead  of  sandy,  and  now  I  saw  why : 
they  are  pebbly,  with  not  a  grain  of  sand  to  be  found. 
This  chalk  formation,  as  I  have  already  said,  is  full 
of  flint  nodules ;  and  as  the  shore  is  eaten  away  by 
the  sea,  these  rounded  masses  remain.  They  soon 
become  worn  into  smooth  pebbles,  that  beneath  the 
pounding  of  the  surf  give  out  a  strange  clinking, 
rattling  sound.  Across  the  Channel,  on  the  French 
side,  there  is  more  sand,  but  it  is  of  the  hue  of  mud 
and  not  pleasing  to  look  upon. 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  17 

Of  other  walks  I  had  in  England,  I  recall  with 
pleasure  a  Sunday  up  the  Thames  toward  Windsor: 
the  day  perfect,  the  river  alive  with  row-boats,  the 
shore  swarming  with  pedestrians  and  picnickers*, 
young  athletic  London,  male  and  female,  rushing 
forth  as  hungry  for  the  open  air  and  the  water  as 
young  mountain  herds  for  salt.  I  never  saw  or  imag- 
ined anything  like  it.  One  shore  of  the  Thames, 
sometimes  the  right,  sometimes  the  left,  it  seems, 
belongs  to  the  public.  No  private  grounds,  however 
lordly,  arc  allowed  to  monopolize  both  sides. 

Another  walk  was  about  Winchester  and  Salisbury, 
with  more  cathedral  viewing.  One  of  the  most  hu- 
man things  to  be  seen  in  the  great  cathedrals  is  the 
carven  image  of  some  old  knight  or  warrior  prince 
resting  above  his  tomb,  with  his  feet  upon  his  faith- 
ful dog.  I  was  touched  by  this  remembrance  of  the 
dog.  In  all  cases  he  looked  alert  and  watchful,  as  if 
guarding  his  master  while  he  slept.  I  noticed  that 
Cromwell's  soldiers  were  less  apt  to  batter  off  the 
nose  and  ears  of  the  dog  than  they  were  those  of  the 
knight. 

At  Stratford  I  did  more  walking.  After  a  row  on 
the  river,  we  strolled  through  the  low,  grassy  field  in 
front  of  the  church,  redolent  of  cattle  and  clover,  and 
sat  for  an  hour  on  the  margin  of  the  stream  and  en- 
joyed the  pastoral  beauty  and  the  sunshine.  In  the 
afternoon  (it  was  Sunday)  I  walked  across  the  fields 
to  Shottery,  and  then  .followed  the  road  as  it  wound 
amid  the  quaint  little  thatched  cottages  till  it  ended 
2 


18  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

at  a  stile  from  which  a  foot-path  led  across  broad, 
sunny  fields  to  a  stately  highway.  To  give  a  more 
minute  account  of  English  country  scenes  arid  sounds 
in  midsummer,  I  will  here  copy  some  jottings  in  my 
note-book,  made  then  and  there :  — 

"July  16.  In  the  fields  Beyond  Shottery.  Bright 
and  breezy,  with  appearance  of  slight  showers  in  the 
distance.  Thermometer  probably  about  seventy  ;  a 
good  working  temperature.  Clover —  white,  red,  and 
yellow  (white  predominating)  — in  the  fields  all  about 
me.  The  red  very  ruddy;  the  white  large.  The 
only  noticeable  bird  voice  that  of  the  yellow-ham- 
mer, two  or  throe  being  within  ear-shot.  The  song 
is  much  like  certain  sparrow  songs,  only  inferior: 
Sip,  sip,  sip,  see-e-e-e ;  or  If,  if,  if,  you  pleas-e-e-e. 
Honey-bees  on  the  white  clover.  Turf  very  thick 
and  springy,  supporting  two  or  three  kinds  of  grass 
resembling  redtop  and  bearded  rye-grass.  Narrow- 
leaved  plantain,  a  few  buttercups,  a  small  yellow 
flower  unknown  to  me  (probably  ladies'  fingers), 
also  a  species  of  dandelion  and  prunella.  The  land 
thrown  into  marked  swells  twenty  feet  broad.  Two 
Sunday-school  girls  lying  on  the  grass  in  the  other 
end  of  the  field.  A  number  of  young  men  playing 
some  game,  perhaps  cards,  seated  on  the  ground  in 
an  adjoining  field.  Scarcely  any  signs  of  midsum- 
mer to  me ;  no  ripeness  or  maturity  in  Nature  yet. 
The  grass  very  tender  and  succulent,  the  streams  full 
and  roily.  Yarrow  and  cinque-foil  also  in  the  grass 
where  I  sit.  The  plantain  in  bloom  and  fragrant. 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  19 

Along  the  Avon,  the  meadow-sweet  id  full  bloom, 
with  a  fine  cinnamon  odor.  A  wild  rose  here  and 
there  in  the  hedge-rows.  The  wild  clematis  nearly 
ready  to  bloom,  in  appearance  almost  identical  with 
our  own.  The  wheat  and  oats  full-grown,  but  not 
yet  turning.  The  clouds  soft  and  fleecy.  Prunella 
dark  purple.  A  few  paces  farther  on  I  enter  a  high- 
way, one  of  the  broadest  I  have  seen,  the  road-bed 
fcard  and  smooth  as  usual,  about  sixteen  feet  wide, 
with  grassy  margins  twelve  feet  wide,  redolent  with 
white  and  red  clover.  A  rich  farming  landscape 
spreads  around  me,  with  blue-  hills  in  the  far  west. 
Cool  and  fresh  like  June.  Bumble-bees  here  and 
there,  more  hairy  than  at  home.  A  plow  in  a  field 
by  the  road-side  is  so  heavy  I  can  barely  move  it 
—  at  least  three  times  as  heavy  as  an  American 
plow ;  beam  very  long,  tails  four  inches  square,  the 
mould-board  a  thick  plank.  The  soil  like  putty; 
where  it  dries,  crumbling  into  small,  hard  lumps,  but 
sticky  and  tough  when  damp, — Shakespeare's  soil, 
the  finest  and  most  versatile  wit  of  the  world,  the 
product  of  a  sticky,  stubborn  clay-bank.  Here  is  a 
field  where  every  alternate  swell  is  small.  The 
Large  swells  heave  up  in  a  very  mol ten-like  way  — 
real  turfy  billows,  crested  with  white  clover-blos- 
soms." 

"  July  17.  On  the  road  to  Warwick,  two  miles 
from  Stratford.  Morning  bright,  with  sky  full  of 
white,  soft,  high-piled  thunderheads.  Plenty  of  pink 
blackberry  blossoms  along  the  road ;  herb  Robert  in 


20  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

bloom,  and  a  kind  of  Solomon's-seal  as  at  home,  and 
what  appears  to  be  a  species  of  golden-rod  with  a 
midsummery  smell.  The  note  of  the  yellow-hammer 
and  the  wren  here  and  there.  Beech-trees  loaded 
with  mast  and  humming  with  bumble-bees,  probably 
gathering  honey-dew,  which  seems  to  be  more  abun- 
dant here  than  with  us.  The  landscape  like  a  well- 
kept  park  dotted  with  great  trees,  which  make  islands 
of  shade  in  a  sea  of  grass.  Droves  of  sheep  grazing, 
and  herds  of  cattle  reposing  in  the  succulent  fields. 
Now  the  just  felt  breeze  brings  me  the  rattle  of  a 
mowing-machine,  a  rare  sound  here,  as  most  of  the 
grass  is  cut  by  hand.  The  great  motionless  arms 
of  a  windmill  rising  here  and  there  above  the  hori- 
zon. A  gentleman's  turn-out  goes  by  with  glitter- 
ing wheels  and  spanking  team ;  the  footman  in  liv- 
ery behind,  the  gentleman  driving.  I  hear  his  brake 
scrape  as  he  puts  it  on  down  the  gentle  descent. 
Now  a  lark  goes  off.  Then  the  mellow  horn  of 
a  cow  or  heifer  is  heard.  Then  the  bleat  of  sheep. 
The  crows  caw  hoarsely.  Few  houses  by  the  road- 
side, but  here  and  there  behind  the  trees  in  the  dis- 
tance. 1  hear  the  greenfinch,  stronger  and  sharper 
than  our  goldfinch,  but  less  pleasing.  The  matured 
look  of  some  fields  of  grass  alone  suggests  midsum- 
mer. Several  species  of  mint  by  the  road-side,  also 
certain  white  umbelliferous  plants.  Everywhere  that 
yoyal  weed  of  Britain,  the  nettle.  Shapely  piles 
of  road  material  and  pounded  stone  at  regular  dis- 
tances, every  fragment  of  which  will  go  through  a 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  21 

two-inch  ring.  The  roads  are  mended  only  in  win- 
ter, and  are  kept  as  smooth  and  hard  as  a  rock.  No 
swells  or  '  thank-y'-ma'ms'  in  them  to  turn  the  water ; 
they  shed  the  water  like  a  rounded  pavement.  On 
the  hill,  three  miles  from  Stratford,  where  a  finger- 
post  points  you  to  Hampton  Lucy,  I  turn  and  see  the 
spire  of  Shakespeare's  church  between  the  trees.  It 
lies  in  a  broad,  gentle  talley,  and  rises  above  much 
foliage.  *  I  hope  and  praise  God  it  will  keep  foiue,' 
said  the  old  woman  at  whose  little  cottage  I  stopped 
for  ginger-beer,  attracted  by  a  sign  in  the  window. 
4  One  penny,  sir,  if  you  please.  I  made  it  myself,  sir. 
I  do  not  leave  the  front  door  unfastened  '  (undoing  it 
to  let  me  out)  '  when  I  am  down  in  the  garden.'  A 
weasel  runs  across  the  road  in  front  of  me,  and  is 
scolded  by  a  little  bird.  The  body  of  a  dead  hedge- 
hog festering  beside  the  hedge.  A  species  of  St. 
Johnswort  in  bloom,  teasels,  and  a  small  convolvu- 
lus. Also  a  species  of  plaintaiu  with  a  head  large  as 
my  finger,  purple  tinged  with  white.  Road  margins 
wide,  grassy,  and  fragrant  with  clover.  Privet  in 
bloom  in  the  hedges,  panicles  of  small  white  flowers 
faintly  sweet-scented.  *  As  clean  and  white  as  privet 
when  it  flowers,'  says  Tennyson  in  '  Walking  to  the 
Mail.'  The  road  an  avenue  between  noble  trees, 
beech,  ash,  elm,  and  oak.  All  the  fields  are  bounded 
by  lines  of  stately  trees ;  the  distance  is  black  with 
them.  A  large  thistle  by  the  road-side,  with  home- 
Jess  bumble-bees  on  the  heads  as  at  home,  some  of 
them  white-faced  and  stingless.  Thistles  rare  in  this 


22  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

country.  Weeds  of  all  kinds  rare  except  the  nettle. 
The  place  to  see  the  Scotch  thistle  is  not  in  Scotland 
or  England,  but  in  America." 


III. 

ENGLAND  is  like  the  margki  of  a  spring-run,  near 
its  source  —  always  green,  always  cool,  always  moist, 
comparatively  free  from  frost  in  winter  and  from 
drought  in  summer.  The  spring-run  to  which  it  owes 
this  character  is  the  Gulf  Stream,  which  brings  out  of 
the  pit  of  the  southern  ocean  what  the  fountain  brings 
out  of  the  bowels  of  the  earth  —  a  uniform  tempera- 
ture, low  but  constant ;  a  fog  in  winter,  a  cloud  in 
summer.  The  spirit  of  gentle,  fertilizing  summer 
rain  perhaps  never  took  such  tangible  and  topograph- 
ical shape  before.  Cloud-evolved,  cloud-enveloped, 
cloud-protected,  it  fills  the  eye  of  the  American  trav- 
eler with  a  vision  of  greenness  such  as  he  has  never 
before  dreamed  of;  a  greenness  born  of  perpetual 
May,  tender,  untarnished,  ever  renewed,  and  as  uni- 
form and  all-pervading  as  the  rain-drops  that  fall,  cov- 
ering mountain,  cliff,  and  vale  alike.  The  softened, 
rounded,  flowing  outlines  given  to  our  landscape  by 
a  deep  fall  of  snow  are  given  to  the  English  by  this 
depth  of  vegetable  mould  and  this  all-prevailing  ver- 
dure which  it  supports.  Indeed,  it  is  caught  upon  the 
shelves  and  projections  of  the  rocks  as  if  it  fell  from 
the  clouds,  —  a  kind  of  green  snow,  —  and  it  clings  to 


NATURE  IN  ENGLASfc  23 


their  rough  or  slanting  sides  like  moist  flakes.  In 
the  little  valleys  and  chasms  it  appears  to  lie  deepest. 
Only  the  peaks  and  broken  rocky  crests  of  the  high- 
est Scotch  and  Cumberland  mountains  are  bare. 
Adown  their  treeless  sides  the  moist,  fresh  greenness 
fairly  drips.  Grass,  grass,  grass,  and  evermore  grass. 
Is  there  another  country  under  the  sun  so  becush- 
ioned,  becarpeted,  and  becurtained  with  grass  ?  Even 
the  woods  are  full  of  grass,  and  I  have  seen  them 
mowing  in  a  forest.  Grass  grows  upon  the  rocks, 
upon  the  walls,  on  the  tops  of  the  old  castles,  on  the 
roofs  of  the  houses,  and  in  winter  the  hay  seed  some- 
times sprouts  upon  the  backs  of  the  sheep.  Turf 
used  as  capping  to  a  stone  fence  thrives  and  blooms 
as  if  upon  the  ground.  There  seems  to  be  a  deposit 
from  the  atmosphere,  —  a  slow  but  steady  accumula- 
tion of  a  black,  peaty  mould  upon  all  exposed  sur* 
faces,  —  that  by  and  by  supports  some  of  the  lower 
or  cryptogamous  forms  of  vegetation.  These  decay 
and  add  to  the  soil,  till  thus  in  time  grass  and  other 
plants  will  grow.  The  walls  of  the  old  castles  and 
cathedrals  support  a  variety  of  plant  life.  On  Roch- 
ester Castle  I  saw  two  or  three  species  of  large  wild 
flowers  growing  one  hundred  feet  from  the  ground 
and  tempting  the  tourist  to  perilous  Teachings  and 
climbings  to  get  them.  The  very  stones  seem  to 
sprcvst.  My  companion  made  a  sketch  of  a  striking 
group  of  red  and  white  flowers  blooming  far  up  on 
one  of  the  buttresses  of  Rochester  Cathedral.  The 
soil  will  climb  to  any  height.  Indeed,  there  seems 


24  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

to  be  a  kind  of  finer  soil  floating  in  the  air.  How 
else  can  one  account  for  the  general  smut  of  the 
human  face  and  hands  in  this  country,  and  the 
impossibility  of  keeping  his  own  clean  ?  The  un- 
washed hand  here  quickly  leaves  its  mark  on  what- 
ever it  touches.  A  prolonged  neglect  of  soap  and 
water,  and  I  think  one  would  be  presently  covered 
with  a  fine  green  mould,  like  that  upon  the  boles  of 
the  trees  in  the  woods.  If  the  rains  were  not  occa- 
sionally heavy  enough  to  clean  them  off,  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  roofs  of  all  buildings  in  England  would 
in  a  few  years  be  covered  with  turf,  and  that  daisies 
and  buttercups  would  bloom  upon  them.  How  quickly 
all  new  buildings  take  on  the  prevailing  look  of  age 
and  mellowness.  One  needs  to  have  seen  the  great 
architectural  piles  and  monuments  of  Britain  to  ap- 
preciate Shakespeare's  line,  — 

"Thatunswept  stone,  besmeared  with  sluttish  Time." 
He  must  also  have  seen  those  Scotch  or  Cumberland 
mountains  to  appreciate  the  descriptive  force  of  this 
other  line,  — 

"  The  turfy  mountains  where  live  the  nibbling  sheep." 

The  turfy  mountains  are  the  unswept  stones  that 
have  held  and  utilized  their  ever-increasing  capi- 
tal of  dirt.  These  vast  rocky  eminences  are  stuffed 
and  padded  with  peat;  it  is  the  sooty  soil  of  the 
house-tops  and  of  the  grimy  human  hand,  deepened 
and  accumulated  till  it  nourishes  the  finest,  sweetest 
grass. 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  25 

It  was  this  turfy  and  grassy  character  of  these 
mountains  —  I  am  tempted  to  say  their  cushionary 
character  —  that  no  reading  or  picture  viewing  of 
mine  had  prepared  me  for.  In  the  cut  or  on  canvas 
they  appeared  like  hard  and  frowning  rocks;  and 
here  I  beheld  them  as  green  and  succulent  as  any 
meadow-bank  in  April  or  May,  —  vast,  elevated  sheep- 
walks  and  rabbit-warrens,  treeless,  shrubless,  gener- 
ally without  loose  bowlders,  shelving  rocks,  or  sheer 
precipices ;  often  rounded,  feminine,  dimpled,  or  im- 
pressing one  as  if  the  rock  had  been  thrust  up  be- 
neath an  immense  stretch  of  the  finest  lawn,  and  had 
carried  the  turf  with  it  heavenward,  rending  it  here 
and  there,  but  preserving  acres  of  it  intact. 

In  Scotland  I  ascended  Ben  Venue,  not  one  of  the 
highest  or  ruggedest  of  the  Scotch  mountains,  but  a 
fair  sample  of  them,  and  my  foot  was  seldom  off  the 
grass  or  bog,  often  sinking  into  them  as  into  a  satu- 
rated sponge.  "Where  I  expected  a  dry  course,  I 
found  a  wet  one.  The  thick,  springy  turf  was  ooz- 
ing with  water.  Instead  of  being  balked  by  preci- 
pices, I  was  hindered  by  swamps.  Where  a  tangle 
of  brush  or  a  chaos  of  bowlders  should  have  detained 
me,  I  was  picking  my  way  as  through  a  wet  meadow- 
bottom  tilted  up  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees. 
My  feet  became  soaked  when  my  shins  should  have 
been  bruised.  Occasionally,  a  large  deposit  of  peat  in 
some  favored  place  had  given  way  beneath  the  strain 
of  much  water,  and  left  a  black  chasm  a  few  yards 
wide  and  a  yard  or  more  deep.  Cold  spring-runs 


26  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

were  abundant,  wild  flowers  few,  grass  universal.  A 
loping  hare  started  up  before  me ;  a  pair  of  ringed 
ousels  took  a  hasty  glance  at  me  from  behind  a  rock ; 
sheep  and  lambs,  the  latter  white  and  conspicuous 
beside  their  dingy  and  all  but  invisible  dams,  were 
scattered  here  and  there;  the  wheat-ear  uncovered 
its  white  rump  as  it  flitted  from  rock  to  rock,  and  the 
mountain  pipit  displayed  its  larklike  tail.  No  sound 
of  wind  in  the  trees ;  there  were  no  trees,  no  seared 
branches  and  trunks  that  so  enhance  and  set  off 
the  wildness  of  our  mountain-tops.  On  the  summit 
the  wind  whistled  around  the  outcropping  rocks  and 
hummed  among  the  heather,  but  the  great  moun- 
tain did  not  purr  or  roar  like  one  covered  with  for- 
ests. 

I  lingered  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  gazed  upon 
the  stretch  of  mountain  and  vale  about  me.  The 
summit  of  Ben  Lomond,  eight  or  ten  miles  to  the 
west,  rose  a  few  hundred  feet  above  me.  On  four 
peaks  I  could  see  snow  or  miniature  glaciers.  Only 
four  or  five  houses,  mostly  humble  shepherd  dwell- 
ings, were  visible  in  that  wide  circuit.  The  sun 
shone  out  at  intervals ;  the  driving  clouds  floated 
low,  their  keels  scraping  the  rocks  of  some  of  the 
higher  summits.  The  atmosphere  was  filled  with  a 
curious  white  film,  like  water  tinged  with  milk,  an 
effect  only  produced  at  home  by  a  fine  mist.  "  A 
certain  tameness  in  the  view,  after  all,"  I  recorded  in 
my  note-book  on  the  spot,  "  perhaps  because  of  the 
trim  and  grassy  character  of  the  mountain ;  not  sol 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  27 

emn  and  impressive  ;  no  sense  of  age  or  power.  The 
rock  crops  out  everywhere,  but  it  can  hardly  look  you 
in  the  face ;  it  is  crumbling  and  insignificant ;  shows 
no  frowning  walls,  no  tremendous  cleavage;  nothing 
overhanging  and  precipitous ;  no  wrath  and  revel  of 
the  elder  gods." 

Even  in  rugged  Scotland,  nature  is  scarcely  wilder 
than  a  mountain  sheep,  certainly  a  good  way  short  of 
the  ferity  of  the  moose  and  caribou.  There  is  every- 
where marked  repose  and  moderation  in  the  scenery, 
a  kind  of  aboriginal  Scotch  canniness  and  propriety 
that  gives  one  a  new  sensation.  On  and  about  Ben 
Nevis  there  is  barrenness,  cragginess,  and  desolation  ; 
but  the  characteristic  feature  of  wild  Scotch  scenery 
is  the  moor,  lifted  up  into  mountains,  covering  low, 
broad  hills,  or  stretching  away  in  undulating  plains, 
black,  silent,  melancholy,  it  may  be,  but  never  savage 
or  especially  wild.  "  The  vast  and  yet  not  savage 
solitude,"  Carlyle  says,  referring  to  these  moorlands. 
The  soil  is  black  and  peaty,  often  boggy  ;  the  heather 
short  and  uniform  as  prairie  grass ;  a  shepherd's  cot- 
tage or  a  sportsman's  "box"  stuck  here  and  there 
amid  tho  hills.  The  highland  cattle  are  shaggy  and 
picturesque,  but  the  moors  and  mountains  are  close 
cropped  and  uniform.  The  solitude  is  not  that  of  a 
forest  full  of  still  forms  and  dim  vistas,  but  of  wide, 
open,  sombre  spaces.  Nature  did  not  look  alien  or 
unfriendly  to  me ;  there  must  be  barrenness  or  some 
savage  threatening  feature  in  the  landscape  to  pro- 
duce this  impression  j  but  the  heather  and  whin  are 


28  NATURE   IN  ENGLAND. 

like  a  permanent  shadow,  and  one  longs  to  see  the 
trees  stand  up  and  wave  their  branches.  The  tor- 
rents leaping  down  off  the  mountains  are  very  wel- 
come to  both  eye  and  ear.  And  the  lakes  —  nothing 
can  be  prettier  than  Loch  Lomond  and  Loch  Katrine, 
though  one  wishes  for  some  of  the  superfluous  rocks  of 
the  New  World  to  give  their  beauty  a  granite  setting. 


IV. 

IT  is  characteristic  of  nature  in  England  that  most 
of  the  stone  with  which  the  old  bridges,  churches,  and 
cathedrals  are  built  is  so  soft  that  people  carve  their 
initials  in  it  with  their  jackknives,  as  we  do  in  the 
bark  of  a  tree  or  in  a  piece  of  pine  timber.  At 
Stratford  a  card  has  been  posted  upon  the  outside 
of  the  old  church,  imploring  visitors  to  refrain  from 
this  barbarous  practice.  One  sees  names  and  dates 
there  more  than  a  century  old.  Often,  in  leaning 
over  the  parapets  of  the  bridges  along  the  highways, 
I  would  fiud  them  covered  with  letters  and  figures. 
Tourists  have  made  such  havoc  chipping  off  frag- 
ments from  the  old  Brig  o'  Doon  in  Burns's  country, 
that  the  parapet  has  had  to  be  repaired.  One  could 
cut  out  the  key  of  the  arch  with  his  pocket-knife. 
And  yet  these  old  structures  outlast  empires.  A  few 
miles  from  Glasgow  I  saw  the  remains  of  an  old 
Roman  bridge,  the  arch  apparently  as  perfect  as 
when  the  first  Roman  chariot  passed  over  it,  prob- 


NATURE  IN   ENGLAND.  29 

p 

ably  fifteen  centuries  ago.  No  wheels  but  those  of 
time  pass  over  it  in  these  later  centuries,  and  these 
seem  to  be  driven  slowly  and  gently  in  this  land, 
with  but  little  wear  and  tear  to  the  ancient  high- 
ways. 

England  is  not  a  country  of  granite  and  marble, 
but  of  chalk,  marl,  and  clay.  The  old  Plutonic  gods 
do  not  assert  themselves  ;  they  are  buried  and  turned 
to  dust,  and  the  more  modern  humanistic  divinities 
bear  sway.  The  land  is  a  green  cemetery  of  extinct 
rude  forces.  Where  the  highway  or  the  railway 
gashed  the  hills  deeply,  I  could  seldom  tell  where 
the  soil  ended  and  the  rock  began,  as  they  gradually 
assimilated,  blended,  and  became  one. 

And  this  is  the  key  to  nature  in  England :  't  is 
granite  grown  ripe  and  mellow  and  issuing  in  grass 
and  verdure  ;  't  is  aboriginal  force  and  fecundity  be- 
come docile  and  equable  and  mounting  toward  higher 
forms,  —  the  harsh,  bitter  rind  of  the  earth  grown 
sweet  and  edible.  There  is  such  body  and  substance 
in  the  color  and  presence  of  things  that  one  thinks 
the  very  roots  of  the  grass  must  go  deeper  than 
usual.  The  crude,  the  raw,  the  discordant,  where 
are  they  ?  It  seems  a  comparatively  short  and  easy 
step  from  nature  to  the  canvas  or  to  the  poem  in  this 
cozy  land.  Nothing  need  be  added  ;  the  idealization 
has  already  taken  place.  The  Old  World  is  deeply 
covered  with  a  kind  of  human  leaf-mould,  while  the 
New  is  for  the  most  part  yet  raw,  undigested  hard- 
pan.  This  is  why  these  scenes  haunt  one  like  a 


30  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

memory.  One  seems  to  have  youthfu  w,4sociations 
with  every  field  and  hill-top  he  looks  upon.  The 
complete  humanization  of  nature  has  taken  place. 
The  soil  has  been  mixed  with  human  thought  and 
substance.  These  fields  have  been  alternately  Celt, 
Roman,  British,  Norman,  Saxon ;  they  have  moved 
and  walked  and  talked  and  loved  and  suffered ;  hence 
one  feels  kindred  to  them  and  at  home  among  them. 
The  mother-land,  indeed.  Every  foot  of  its  soil  has 
given  birth  to  a  human  being  and  growu  tender  and 
conscious  with  time. 

England  is  like  a  seat  by  the  chimney-corner,  and 
is  as  redolent  of  human  occupancy  and  domesticity. 
It  has  the  island  coziness  and  unity,  and  the  island 
simplicity  as  opposed  to  the  continental  diversity  of 
forms.  It  is  all  one  neighborhood ;  a  friendly  and 
familiar  air  is  over  all.  It  satisfies  to  the  full  one's 
utmost  craving  for  the  home-like  and  for  the  fruits 
of  affectionate  occupation  of  the  soil.  It  does  not 
satisfy  one's  craving  for  the  wild,  the  savage,  the  ab- 
original, what  our  poet  describes  as  his 

"  Hungering,  hungering,  hungering,  for  primal  energies  and  Na- 
ture's dauntlessness." 

But  probably  in  the  matter  of  natural  scenes  we 
hunger  most  for  that  which  we  most  do  feed  upon. 
At  any  rate,  I  can  conceive  that  one  might  be  easily 
contented  with  what  the  English  landscape  affords 
him. 

The  whole  physiognomy  of  the  land  bespeaks  the 
action  of  slow,  uniform,  conservative  agencies.  There 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  31 

is  an  elemental  composure  and  moderation  in  things 
that  leave  their  mark  everywhere,  —  a  sort  of  ele- 
mental sweetness  and  docility  that  are  a  surprise  and 
a  charm.  One  does  not  forget  that  the  evolution  of 
man  probably  occurred  in  this  hemisphere,  and  time 
would  seem  to  have  proved  that  there  is  something 
here  more  favorable  to  his  perpetuity  and  longevity. 

The  dominant  impression  of  the  English  landscape 
is  repose.  Never  was  such  a  restful  land  to  the  eye, 
especially  to  the  American  eye,  sated  as  it  is  very 
apt  to  be  with  the  mingled  squalor  and  splendor  of 
its  own  landscape,  its  violent  contrasts,  and  general 
spirit  of  unrest.  But  the  completeness  and  com- 
posure of  this  out-door  nature  is  like  a  dream.  It  ia 
like  the  poise  of  the  tide  at  its  full :  every  hurt  of 
the  world  is  healed,  every  shore  covered,  every  un- 
sightly spot  is  hidden.  The  circle  of  the  horizon  is 
brimming  with  the  green  equable  flood.  (I  did  not 
see  the  fens  of  Lincolnshire  nor  the  wolds  of  York.) 
This  look  of  repose  is  partly  the  result  of  the  matur- 
ity and  ripeness  brought  about  by  time  and  ages  of 
patient  and  thorough  husbandry,  arid  partly  the  result 
of  the  gentle,  continent  spirit  of  Nature  herself.  She 
is  contented,  she  is  happily  wedded,  she  is  well 
clothed  and  fed.  Her  offspring  swarm  about  her, 
her  paths  have  fallen  in  pleasant  places.  The  foliage 
of  the  trees,  how  dense  and  massive !  The  turf  of 
the  fields,  how  thick  and  uniform  !  The  streams  and 
rivers,  how  placid  and  full,  showing  no  devastated 
margins,  no  widespread  sandy  wastes  and  unsightly 


32  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

heaps  of  drift  bowlders !  To  the  returned  traveler 
the  foliage  of  the  trees  and  groves  of  New  England 
and  New  York  looks  thiii  and  disheveled  when  com- 
pared with  the  foliage  he  has  just  left.  This  effect 
is  probably  owing  to  our  cruder  soil  and  sharper 
climate.  The  aspect  of  our  trees  in  midsummer  is  as 
if  the  hair  of  their  heads  stood  on  end  ;  the  woods 
have  a  wild,  frightened  look,  or  as  if  they  were  just 
recovering  from  a  debauch.  In  «ur  intense  light  and 
heat,  the  leaves,  instead  of  spreading  themselves  full 
to  the  sun  and  crowding  out  upon  the  ends  of  the 
branches  as  they  do  in  England,  retreat,  as  it  were, 
hide  behind  each  other,  stand  edgewise,  perpendicu- 
lar, or  at  any  angle,  to  avoid  the  direct  rays.  In 
Britain,  from  the  slow,  dripping  rains  and  the  exces- 
sive moisture,  the  leaves  of  the  trees  droop  more, 
and  the  branches  are  more  pendent.  The  rays  of 
light  are  fewer  and  feebler,  and  the  foliage  disposes 
itself  so  as  to  catch  them  all,  and  thus  presents  a 
fuller  and  broader  surface  to  the  eye  of  the  beholder. 
The  leaves  are  massed  upon  the  outer  ends  of  the 
branches,  while  the  interior  of  the  tree  is  compara- 
tively leafless.  The  European  plane-tree  is  like  a 
tent.  The  foliage  is  all  on  the  outside.  The  bird 
voices  in  it  reverberate  as  in  a  chamber. 

"The  pillar' d  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores," 

says  Tennyson.  At  a  little  distance,  it  has  the  mass 
and  solidity  of  a  rock.  The  same  is  true  of  the 
European  maple,  and  when  this  tree  is  grown  on  our 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  33 

side  of  the  Atlantic  it  keeps  up  its  Old  World  habits. 
I  have  for  several  years  taken  note  of  a  few  of  them 
growing  in  a  park  near  my  home.  They  have  less 
grace  and  delicacy  of  outline  than  our  native  maple, 
but  present  a  darker  and  more  solid  mass  of  foliage. 
The  leaves  are  larger  and  less  feathery,  and  are 
crowded  to  the  periphery  of  the  tree.  Nearly  every 
summer  one  of  the  trees,  which  is  most  exposed,  gets 
the  leaves  on  one  side  badly  scorched.  When  the  fo- 
liage begins  to  turn  in  the  fall,  the  trees  appear  as  if 
they  had  been  lightly  and  hastily  brushed  with  gold. 
The  outer  edges  of  the  branches  become  a  light  yel- 
low, while,  a  little  deeper,  the  body  of  the  foliage  is 
still  green.  It  is  this  solid  and  sculpturesque  char- 
acter of  the  English  foliage  that  so  fills  the  eye  of 
the  artist.  The  feathery,  formless,  indefinite,  not  to 
say  thin,  aspect  of  our  leafage  is  much  less  easy  to 
paint,  and  much  less  pleasing  when  painted. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  turf  in  the  fields  and  upon 
the  hills.  The  sward  with  us,  even  in  the  oldest  mead- 
ows, will  wear  more  or  less  a  ragged,  uneven  aspect. 
The  frost  heaves  it,  the  sun  parches  it ;  it  is  thiu  here 
and  thick  there,  crabbed  in  one  spot  and  fine  and  soft 
in  another.  Only  by  the  frequent  use  of  a  heavy 
roller,  copious  waterings  and  top-dressings,  can  we 
produce  sod  that  approaches  in  beauty  even  that  of 
the  elevated  sheep  ranges  in  England  and  Scotland. 

The  greater  activity  and  abundance  of  the  earth- 
worm, as  disclosed  by  Darwin,  probably  has  much  to 
do  with  the  smoothness  and  fatness  of  those  fields 


34  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

when  contrasted  with  oar  own.  This  little  yet  mighty 
engine  is  much  less  instrumental  in  leavening  and 
leveling  the  soil  in  New  England  than  in  Old.  The 
greater  humidity  of  the  mother-country,  the  deep 
clayey  soil,  its  fattening  for  ages  by  human  occu- 
pancy, the  abundance  of  food,  the  milder  climate,  etc., 
are  all  favorable  to  the  life  and  activity  of  the  earth- 
worm. Indeed,  according  to  Darwin,  the  gardener 
that  has  made  England  a  garden  is  none  other  than 
this  little  obscure  creature.  It  plows,  drains,  airs, 
pulverizes,  fertilizes,  and  levels.  It  cannot  transport 
rocks  and  stone,  bat  it  can  bury  them ;  it  cannot  re- 
move the  ancient  walls  and  pavements,  but  it  can 
undermine  them  and  deposit  its  rich  castings  above 
them.  On  each  acre  of  land,  he  says,  "in  many 
parts  of  England,  a  weight  of  more  than  ten  tons  of 
dry  earth  annually  passes  through  their  bodies  and 
is  brought  to  the  surface."  w  When  we  behold  a 
wide,  turf-covered  expanse,"  he  further  observes,  "  we 
should  remember  that  its  smoothness,  on  which  so 
much  of  its  beauty  depends,  is  mainly  due  to  all  the 
inequalities  having  been  slowly  leveled  by  worms,** 

The  small  part  which  worms  play  in  this  direction 
in  our  landscape  is,  I  am  convinced,  more  than  neu- 
tralized by  our  violent  or  disrupting  climate;  but 
England  looks  like  the  product  of  some  such  gentle, 
tireless,  and  beneficent  agent.  I  have  referred  to 
that  effect  in  the  face  of  the  landscape  as  if  the  soil 
had  snowed  down  ;  it  seems  the  snow  came  from  the 
other  direction,  namely,  from  below,  but  was  depos« 
ited  with  equal  gentleness  and  uniformity. 


NATURE  IN  ENGLAND.  35 

The  repose  and  equipoise  of  nature  of  which  I 
have  spoken  appears  in  the  fields  of  grain  no  less 
than  in  the  turf  and  foliage.  One  may  see  vast 
stretches  of  wheat,  oats,  barley,  beans,  etc.,  as  uni- 
form as  the  surface  of  a  lake,  every  stalk  of  grain 
or  bean  the  size  and  height  of  every  other  stalk. 
This,  of  course,  means  good  husbandry ;  it  means  a 
mild,  even-tempered  nature  back  of  it,  also.  Then 
the  repose  of  the  English  landscape  is  enhanced, 
rather  than  marred,  by  the  part  man  has  played  in 
it.  How  those  old  arched  bridges  rest  above  the 
placid  streams ;  how  easily  they  conduct  the  trim, 
perfect  highways  over  them  !  "Where  the  foot  finds 
an  easy  way,  the  eye  finds  the  same  ;  where  the  body 
finds  harmony,  the  mind  finds  harmony.  Those  ivy- 
covered  walls  and  ruins,  those  finished  fields,  those 
rounded  hedge-rows,  those  embowered  cottages,  and 
that  gray,  massive  architecture,  all  contribute  to  the 
harmony  and  to  the  repose  of  the  landscape.  Perhaps 
in  no  other  country  are  the  grazing  herds  so  much  at 
ease.  One's  first  impression,  on  seeing  British  fields 
in  spring  or  summer,  is,  that  the  cattle  and  sheep 
have  all  broken  in  to  the  meadow  and  have  not  yet 
been  discovered  by  the  farmer ;  they  have  taken 
their  fill,  and  are  now  reposing  upon  the  grass  or 
dreaming  under  the  trees.  But  you  presently  per- 
ceive that  it  is  all  meadow  or  meadow-like ;  that  thero 
are  no  wild,  weedy,  or  barren  pastures  about  which 
the  herds  toil ;  but  that  they  are  in  grass  up  to  their 
eyes  everywhere.  Hence  their  contentment ;  hence 
another  element  of  repose  in  the  landscape. 


Bb  NATURE  IN  ENGLAND. 

The  softness  and  humidity  of  the  English  climate 
act  in  two  ways  in  promoting  that  marvelous  green- 
ness of  the  land,  namely,  by  growth  and  by  decay. 
As  the  grass  springs  quickly,  so  its  matured  stalk  or 
dry  leaf  decays  quickly.  No  field  growths  are  desic- 
cated and  preserved  as  with  us ;  there  are  no  dried 
stubble  and  seared  leaves  remaining  over  the  winter 
to  mar  and  obscure  the  verdancy  of  spring.  Every 
dead  thing  is  quickly  converted  back  to  vegetable 
mould.  In  the  woods,  in  May,  it  is  difficult  to  find 
any  of  the  dry  leaves  of  the  previous  autumn ;  in  the 
fields  and  copses  and  along  the  highways,  no  stalk 
of  weed  or  grass  remains ;  while  our  wild,  uplying 
pastures  and  mountain- tops  always  present  a  more  or 
less  brown  and  seared  appearance  from  the  dried 
and  bleached  stalks  of  the  growth  of  the  previous 
year,  through  which  the  fresh  springing  grass  is 
scarcely  visible.  Where  rain  falls  on  nearly  three 
hundred  days  in  the  year,  as  in  the  British  islands, 
the  conversion  of  the  mould  into  grass,  and  vice 
versa,  takes  place  very  rapidly. 


ENGLISH  WOODS:  A   CONTRAST. 


ENGLISH  WOODS:  A  CONTRAST. 

ONE  cannot  well  overpraise  the  rural  and  pastoral 
beauty  of  England  —  the  beauty  of  her  fields,  parks, 
downs,  holms.  In  England  you  shall  see  at  its  full 
that  of  which  you  catch  only  glimpses  in  this  coun- 
try,  the  broad,  beaming,  hospitable  beauty  of  a  per- 
fectly cultivated  landscape.  Indeed,  to  see  England 
is  to  take  one's  fill  of  the  orderly,  the  permanent,  the 
well-kept  in  the  works  of  man,  and  of  the  continent, 
the  beneficent,  the  uniform,  in  the  works  of  nature. 
It  is  to  see  the  most  perfect  bit  of  garden-lawn  ex- 
tended till  it  covers  an  empire ;  it  is  to  see  the  history 
of  two  thousand  years  written  in  grass  and  verdure, 
and  in  the  Hues  of  the  landscape ;  a  continent  con- 
centrated into  a  state,  the  deserts  and  waste  places 
left  out,  every  rood  of  it  swarming  with  life ;  the  pith 
and  marrow  of  wide  tracts  compacted  into  narrow 
fields  and  recruited  and  forwarded  by  the  most  vigi- 
lant husbandry.  Those  fields  look  stall-fed,  those  cat- 
tle beam  contentment,  those  rivers  have  never  left 
their  banks ;  those  mountains  are  the  paradise  of 
shepherds  ;  those  open  forest  glades,  half  sylvan,  half 
pastoral,  clean,  stately,  full  of  long  vistas  and  cathe- 
dral-like aisles,  —  where  else  can  one  find  beauty  like 


40  ENGLISH  WOODS:   A  CONTRAST. 

that  ?  The  wild  and  the  savage  flee  away.  The  rocks 
pull  the  green  turf  over  them  like  coverlids  ;  the  hills 
are  plump  with  vegetable  mould,  and  when  they  bend 
this  way  or  that,  their  sides  are  wrinkled  and  dimpled 
like  the  forms  of  fatted  sheep.  And  fatted  they  are; 
not  merely  by  the  care  of  man,  but  by  the  elements 
themselves;  the  sky  rains  fertility  upon  them;  there 
is  no  wear  and  tear  as  with  our  alternately  flooded, 
parched,  and  frozen  hill-tops  ;  the  soil  accumulates, 
the  mould  deepens;  the  matted  turf  binds  it  and 
yearly  adds  to  it. 

All  this  is  not  simply  because  man  is  or  has  been 
so  potent  in  the  landscape  (this  is  but  half  the  truth), 
but  because  the  very  mood  and  humor  of  Nature  her- 
self is  domestic  and  human.  She  seems  to  have 
grown  up  with  man  and  taken  on  his  look  and  ways. 
Her  spirit  is  that  of  the  full,  placid  stream  that  you 
may  lead  through  your  garden  or  conduct  by  your 
doorstep  without  other  danger  than  a  wet  sill  or  a 
soaked  flower-plot,  at  rare  intervals.  It  is  the  opulent 
nature  of  the  southern  seas,  brought  by  the  Gulf 
Stream,  and  reproduced  and  perpetuated  here  under 
these  cool  northern  skies,  the  fangs  and  the  poison 
taken  out ;  full,  but  no  longer  feverish ;  lusty,  but  no 
longer  lewd. 

Yet  there  is  a  certain  beauty  of  nature  to  be  had 
in  much  fuller  measure  in  our  own  country  than  in 
England,  — the  beauty  of  the  wild,  the  aboriginal,— 
the  beauty  of  primitive  forests, —  the  beauty  of  lichen- 
covered  rocks  and  ledges.  The  lichen  is  one  of  the 


ENGLISH  WOODS  :    A  CONTRAST.  41 

lowest  and  humblest  forms  of  vegetable  growth,  but 
think  how  much  it  adds  to  the  beauty  of  all  our  wild 
scenery,  giving  to  our  mountain  walls  and  drift  bowl- 
ders the  softest  and  most  pleasing  tints.  The  rocky 
escarpments  of  New  York  and  New  England  hills 
are  frescoed  by  Time  himself,  painted  as  with  the 
brush  of  the  eternal  elements.  But  the  lichen  is 
much  less  conspicuous  in  England,  and  plays  no  such 
part  in  her  natural  scenery.  The  climate  is  too 
damp.  The  rocks  in  Wales  and  Northumberland 
and  in  Scotland  are  dark  and  cold  and  unattractive. 
The  trees  in  the  woods  do  not  wear  the  mottled  suit 
of  soft  gray  ours  do.  The  bark  of  the  British  beech 
is  smooth  and  close-fitting,  and  often  tinged  with  a 
green  mould.  The  Scotch  pine  is  clad  as  in  a  ragged 
suit  of  leather.  Nature  uses  mosses  instead  of  lich- 
ens. The  old  walls  and  house-tops  are  covered  with 
moss  —  a  higher  form  of  vegetation  than  lichens. 
Its  decay  soon  accumulates  a  little  soil  or  vegetable 
mould,  which  presently  supports  flowering  plants. 

Neither  are  there  any  rocks  in  England  worth 
mentioning ;  no  granite  bowlders,  no  fern-decked  or 
moss-covered  fragments  scattered  through  the  woods, 
as  with  us.  They  have  all  been  used  up  for  building 
purposes,  or  for  road-making,  or  else  have  quite  dis- 
solved in  the  humid  climate.  I  saw  rocks  in  Wales, 
quite  a  profusion  of  them  in  the  pass  of  Llanberis, 
but  they  were  tame  indeed  in  comparison  with  such 
rock  scenery  as  that  say  at  Lake  Mohunk,  in  the 
Shawangunk  range  in  New  York.  There  are  passes 


42  ENGLISH  WOODS  :    A  CONTRAST. 

in  the  Catskills  that  for  the  grandeur  of  wildness  and 
savageness  far  surpass  anything  the  Welsh  moun* 
tains  have  to  show.  Then  for  exquisite  and  thrilling 
beauty,  probably  one  of  our  mottled  rocky  walls  with 
the  dicentra  blooming  from*  little  niches  and  shelves 
in  April,  and  the  columbine  thrusting  out  from  seams 
and  crevices  clusters  of  its  orange  bells  in  May,  with 
ferns  and  mosses  clinging  here  and  there,  and  the 
woodbine  tracing  a  delicate  green  line  across  its  face, 
cannot  be  matched  anywhere  in  the  world. 

Then,  in  our  woods,  apart  from  their  treasures  of 
rocks,  there  is  a  certain  beauty  and  purity  unknown 
in  England,  a  certain  delicacy  and  sweetness,  and 
charm  of  unsophisticated  Nature,  that  are  native  to 
our  forests. 

The  pastoral  or  field  life  of  Nature  in  England  is 
so  rank  and  full,  that  no  woods  or  forests  that  I  was 
able  to  find  could  hold  their  own  against  it  for  a  mo- 
ment. It  flooded  them  like  a  tide.  The  grass  grows 
luxuriantly  in  the  thick  woods,  and  where  the  grass 
fails,  the  coarse  bracken  takes  its  place.  There  was 
no  wood  spirit,  no  wild  wood  air.  Our  forests  shut 
their  doors  against  the  fields,  they  shut  out  the  strong 
light  and  the  heat.  Where  the  land  has  been  long 
cleared,  the  woods  put  out  a  screen  of  low  branches, 
or  else  a  brushy  growth  starts  up  along  their  borders 
that  guards  and  protects  their  privacy.  Lift  or  part 
away  these  branches,  and  step  inside,  and  you  are  in 
another  world ;  new  plants,  new  flowers,  new  birds, 
aew  animals,  new  insects,  new  sounds,  new  odors ;  in. 


ENGLISH   WOODS  :    A   CONTRAST.  43 

fact,  an  entirely  different  atmosphere  and  presence. 
Dry  leaves  cover  the  ground,  delicate  ferns  and 
mosses  drape  the  rocks,  shy  delicate  flowers  gleam 
out  here  and  there,  the  slender  brown  wood-frog  leaps 
nimbly  away  from  your  feet,  the  little  red  newt  fills 
its  infantile  pipe,  or  hides  under  a  leaf,  the  ruffed 
grouse  bursts  up  before  you,  the  gray  squirrel  leaps 
from  tree  to  tree,  the  wood-pewee  utters  its  plaintive 
cry,  the  little  warblers  lisp  and  dart  amid  the 
branches,  and  sooner  or  later  the  mosquito  demands 
his  fee.  Our  woods  suggest  new  arts,  new  pleasures, 
a  new  mode  of  life.  English  parks  and  groves,  when 
the  sun  shines,  suggest  a  perpetual  picnic,  or  Maying 
party ;  but  no  one,  I  imagine,  thinks  of  camping  out 
in  English  woods.  The  constant  rains,  the  darkened 
skies,  the  low  temperature,  make  the  interior  of  a 
forest  as  uninviting  as  an  underground  passage.  I 
wondered  what  became  of  the  dry  leaves  that  are 
such  a  feature  and  give  out  such  a  pleasing  odor  in 
our  woods.  They  are  probably  raked  up  and  carried 
away;  or,  if  left  upon  the  ground,  are  quickly  re- 
solved into  mould  by  the  damp  climate. 

While  in  Scotland,  I  explored  a  large  tract  of 
wood-land  mainly  of  Scotch  fir,  that  covers  a  hill 
near  Ecclefechan,  but  it  was  grassy  and  uninviting. 
In  one  of  the  parks  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton,  1 
found  a  deep  wooded  gorge  through  which  flowed 
the  river  Avon  (I  saw  four  rivers  of  this  name  in 
Great  Britain),  a  branch  of  the  Clyde,  —  a  dark  rock- 
paved  stream,  the  color  of  brown  stout.  It  was  the 


44  ENGLISH  WOODS:    A  CONTRAST.       . 

wildest  bit  of  forest  scenery  I  saw  anywhere.  I 
almost  imagined  myself  on  the  head-waters  of  the 
Hudson  or  the  Penobscot.  The  stillness,  the  soli- 
tude, the  wild  boiling  waters,  were  impressive ;  but 
the  woods  had  no  charm ;  there  were  no  flowers,  no 
birds ;  the  sylvan  folk  had  moved  away  long  ago, 
and  their  house  was  cold  and  inhospitable.  I  sat  a 
half-hour  in  their  dark  nettle-grown  halls  by  the 
verge  of  the  creek,  to  see  if  they  were  stirring  any- 
where, but  they  were  not.  I  did,  indeed,  hear  part 
of  a  wren's  song,  and  the  call  of  the  sandpiper ;  but 
that  was  all.  Not  one  purely  wood  voice  or  sound 
or  odor.  But  looking  into  the  air  a  few  yards  be- 
low me,  there  leapt  one  of  those  matchless  stone 
bridges,  clearing  the  profound  gulf  and  carrying  the 
road  over  as  securely  as  if  upon  the  geological  strata. 
It  was  the  bow  of  art  and  civilization  set  against 
Nature's  wildness.  In  the  woods  beyond,  I  came 
suddenly  upon  the  ruins  of  an  old  castle,  with  great 
trees  growing  out  of  it,  and  rabbits  burrowing  be- 
neath it.  One  learns  that  it  takes  more  than  a  col- 
lection of  trees  to  make  a  forest,  as  we  know  it  in 
this  country.  Unless  they  house  that  spirit  of  wild- 
ness  and  purity  like  a  temple,  they  fail  to  satisfy.  In 
walking  to  Selborne,  I  skirted  Wolmer  Forest,  but  it 
had  an  uninviting  look.  The  Hanger  on  the  hill 
above  Selborne,  which  remains  nearly  as  it  was  in 
White's  time,  —  a  thrifty  forest  of  beeches,  —  I  ex- 
plored, but  found  it  like  the  others,  without  any 
distinctive  woodsy  attraction  —  only  so  much  soU 


ENGLISH   WOODS  :    A  CONTRAST.  45 

covered  with  dripping  beeches,  too  dense  for  a  park 
and  too  tame  for  a  forest.  The  soil  is  a  greasy,  slip- 
pery clay,  and  down  the  steepest  part  of  the  hill, 
amid  the  trees,  the  boys  have  a  slide  that  serves  them 
for  summer  "  coastings."  Hardly  a  leaf,  hardly  a 
twig  or  branch,  to  be  found.  In  White's  time,  the 
poor  people  used  to  pick  up  the  sticks  the  crows 
dropped  in  building  their  nests,  and  they  probably  do 
so  yet.  When  one  comes  upon  the  glades  beyond 
the  Hanger,  the  mingling  of  groves  and  grassy  com- 
mon, the  eye  is  fully  content.  The  beech,  which  is 
the  prevailing  tree  here,  as  it  is  in  many  other  parts 
of  England,  is  a  much  finer  tree  than  the  American 
beech.  The  deep  limestone  soil  seems  especially 
adapted  to  it.  It  grows  as  large  as  our  elm,  with 
much  the  same  manner  of  branching.  The  trunk  is 
not  patched  and  mottled  with  gray,  like  ours,  but  is 
often  tinged  with  a  fine  deep  green  mould.  The 
beeches  that  stand  across  the  road  in  front  of  Words- 
worth's house,  at  Rydal  Mount,  have  boles  nearly  as 
green  as  the  surrounding  hills.  The  bark  of  this 
tree  is  smooth  and  close-fitting,  and  shows  that  mus- 
cular, athletic  character  of  the  tree  beneath  it,  which 
justifies  Spenser's  phrase,  "  the  warlike  beech."  These 
beeches  develop  finely  in  the  open,  and  make  superb 
shade-trees  along  the  highway.  All  the  great  histor- 
ical forests  of  England  —  Shrewsbury  Forest,  the 
Forest  of  Dean,  New  Forest,  etc.  —  have  practically 
disappeared.  Remnants  of  them  remain  here  and 
there,  but  the  country  they  once  occupied  is  now  es- 
sentially pastoral. 


46  ENGLISH  WOODS  :    A  CONTRAST. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  there  is  little  or  no  love  of 
woods  as  such  in  English  poetry ;  no  fond  mention 
of  them,  and  dwelling  upon  them.  The  muse  of 
Britain's  rural  poetry  has  none  of  the  wide-eyeduess 
and  furtiveness  of  the  sylvan  creatures ;  she  is  rather 
a  gentle,  wholesome,  slightly  stupid  divinity  of  the 
fields.  Milton  sings  the  praises  of 

"  Arched  walks  of  twilight  groves." 

But  his  wood  is  a  "  drear  wood," 

"  The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger." 

Again :  — 

"very  desolation  dwells 
By  grots  and  caverns  shagg'd  with  horrid  shade." 

Shakespeare  refers  to  the  "  ruthless,  vast,  and  horrid 
wood,"  —  a  fit  place  for  robbery,  rapine,  and  murder. 
Indeed,  English  poetry  is  pretty  well  colored  with  the 
memory  of  the  time  when  the  woods  were  the  hiding- 
places  of  robbers  and  outlaws,  and  were  the  scenes 
of  all  manner  of  dark  deeds.  The  only  thing  I  recall 
in  Shakespeare  that  gives  a  faint  whiff  of  our  forest 
life  occurs  in  "  All 's  Well  That  Ends  Well,"  where 
the  clown  says  to  Lafeu,  "  I  am  a  woodland  fellow, 
sir,  that  always  loved  a  great  fire."  That  great  fire 
is  American ;  wood  is  too  scarce  in  Europe.  Francis 
Iligginson  wrote  in  1630  :  "  New  England  may  boast 
of  the  element  of  fire  more  than  all  the  rest ;  for  all 
Europe  is  not  able  to  afford  to  make  so  great  firea 
as  New  England.  A  poor  servant,  that  is  to  possess 


ENGLISH   WOODS:    A  CONTRAST.  47 

but  fifty  acres,  may  afford  to  give  more  wood  for  fire, 
as  good  as  the  world  yields,  than  many  noblemen  in 
England."  In  many  parts  of  New  England,  New 
York,  and  Pennsylvania,  the  same  royal  fires  may 
still  be  indulged  in.  In  the  chief  nature-poet  of  Eng- 
land, Wordsworth,  there  is  no  line  that  has  the  subtle 
aroma  of  the  deep  woods.  After  seeing  his  country, 
one  can  recognize  its  features,  its  spirit,  all  through 
his  poems  —  its  impressive  solitudes,  its  lonely  tarns, 
its  silent  fells,  its  green  dales,  its  voiceful  waterfalls ; 
but  there  are  no  woods  there  to  speak  of ;  the  moun- 
tains appear  to  have  always  been  treeless,  and  the 
poet's  muse  has  never  felt  the  spell  of  this  phase  of 
nature  —  the  mystery  and  attraction  of  the  in-doors 
of  aboriginal  wildness.  Likewise  in  Tennyson  there 
is  the  breath  of  the  wold,  but  not  of  the  woods. 

Among  our  own  poets,  two  at  least  of  the  more 
eminent  have  listened  to  the  siren  of  our  primitive 
woods.  I  refer  to  Bryant  and  Emerson.  Though 
so  different,  there  is  an  Indian's  love  of  forests  and 
forest-solitudes  in  them  both.  Neither  Bryant's  "  For- 
est Hymn  "  nor  Emerson's  "  Woodnotes  "  could  have 
been  written  by  an  English  poet.  The  "  Woodnotes  " 
savor  of  our  vast  Northern  pine  forests,  amid  which 
one  walks  with  distended  pupil,  and  a  boding,  alert 
sense. 

"In  unploughed  Maine  he  sought  the  lumberers'  gang, 
Where  from  a  hundred  lakes  young  rivers  sprang ; 
He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone  ; 


48  ENGLISH  WOODS  :    A  CONTRAST. 

Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 

And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 

He  saw  beneath  dim  aisles,  in  odorous  beds, 

The  slight  Linnaea  hang  its  twin-born  heads, 

And  blessed  the  monument  of  the  man  of  flowers, 

Which  breathes  his  sweet  fame  through  the  northern  bowers. 

He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals, 

With  sudden  roar  the  aged  pine-tree  falls,  — 

One  crash,  the  death-hymn  of  the  perfect  tree, 

Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century." 

Emerson's  muse  is  urbane,  but  it  is  that  wise  ur- 
banity that  is  at  home  in  the  woods  as  well  as  in  the 
town,  and  can  make  a  garden  of  a  forest. 

"My  garden  is  a  forest-ledge, 

Which  older  forests  bound  | 
The  banks  slope  down  to  the  blue  lake-edge, 

Then  plunge  to  depths  profound." 

On  the  other  hand,  we  have  no  pastoral  poetry  in 
the  English  sense,  because  we  have  no  pastoral  na- 
ture as  overpowering  as  the  English  have.  When  the 
muse  of  our  poetry  is  not  imitative,  it  often  has  a 
piny,  woodsy  flavor,  that  is  unknown  in  the  older 
literatures.  The  gentle  muse  of  Longfellow,  so  civil, 
so  cultivated  ;  yet  how  it  delighted  in  all  legends  and 
echoes  and  Arcadian  dreams,  that  date  from  the 
forest  primeval.  Thoreau  was  a  wood-genius  —  the 
spirit  of  some  Indian  poet  or  prophet,  graduated  at 
Harvard  College,  but  never  losing  his  taste  for  the 
wild.  The  shy,  mystical  genius  of  Hawthorne  was 
never  more  at  home  than  when  in  the  woods.  Read 
the  forest-scenes  in  the  "  Scarlet  Letter."  They  are 
among  the  most  suggestive  in  the  book. 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

IN  crossing  the  sea  a  second  time,  I  was  more 
curious  to  see  Scotland  than  England,  partly  be- 
cause I  had  had  a  good  glimpse  of  the  latter  country 
eleven  years  before,  but  largely  because  I  had  always 
preferred  the  Scotch  people  to  the  English  (I  had 
seen  and  known  more  of  them  in  my  youth),  and  es- 
pecially because  just  then  I  was  much  absorbed  with 
Carlyle,  and  wanted  to  see  with  my  own  eyes,  the 
land  and  the  race  from  which  he  sprang. 

I  suspect  anyhow  I  am  more  strongly  attracted  by 
the  Celt  than  by  the  Anglo-Saxon  ;  at  least  by  the 
individual  Celt.  Collectively  the  Anglo-Saxon  is  the 
more  impressive  ;  his  triumphs  are  greater  ;  the  face 
of  his  country  and  of  his  cities  is  the  more  pleasing ; 
the  gift  of  empire  is  his.  Yet  there  can  be  no  doubt, 
I  think,  that  the  Celts,  at  least  the  Scotch  Celts,  are 
a  more  hearty,  cordial,  and  hospitable  people  than 
the  English  ;  they  have  more  curiosity,  more  raci- 
ness,  and  quicker  and  surer  sympathies.  They  fuse 
and  blend  readily  with  another  people,  which  the 
English  seldom  do.  In  this  country  John  Bull  is 
usually  like  a  pebble  in  the  clay  ;  grind  him  and 
press  him  and  bake  him  as  you  will,  he  is  still  a  peb- 


62  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

ble  —  a  hard  spot  in  the  brick,  but  not  essentially  a 
part  of  it. 

Every  close  view  I  got  of  the  Scotch  character 
confirmed  my  liking  for  it.  A  most  pleasant  episode 
happened  to  me  down  in  Ayr.  A  young  man  whom 
I  stumbled  on  by  chance  in  a  little  wood  by  the 
Doon,  during  some  conversation  about  the  birds  that 
were  singing  around  us,  quoted  my  own  name  to  me. 
This  led  to  an  acquaintance  with  the  family  and  with 
the  parish  minister,  and  gave  a  genuine  human  col- 
oring to  our  brief  sojourn  in  Burns's  country.  In 
Glasgow  I  had  an  inside  view  of  a  household  a  little 
lower  in  the  social  scale  but  high  in  the  scale  of  vir- 
tues and  excellences.  I  climbed  up  many  winding 
stone  stairs  and  found  the  family  in  three  or  four 
rooms  on  the  top  floor  :  a  father,  mother,  three  sons, 
two  of  them  grown,  and  a  daughter,  also  grown. 
The  father  and  the  sons  worked  in  an  iron  foundry 
near  by.  I  broke  bread  with  them  around  the  table 
in  the  little  cluttered  kitchen,  and  was  spared  apolo- 
gies as  much  as  if  we  had  been  seated  at  a  banquet 
in  a  baronial  hall.  A  Bible  chapter  was  read  after 
we  were  seated  at  table,  each  member  of  the  fam- 
ily reading  a  verse  alternately.  When  the  meal  was 
over,  we  went  into  the  next  room,  where  all  joined 
in  singing  some  Scotch  songs,  mainly  from  Burns. 
One  of  the  sons  possessed  the  finest  bass  voice  I  had 
ever  listened  to.  Its  power  was  simply  tremendous, 
well  tempered  with  the  Scotch  raciness  and  tender- 
ness, too.  He  had  taken  the  first  prize  at  a  public 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  53 

singing  bout,  open  to  competition  to  all  of  Scotland, 
I  told  his  mother,  who  also  had  a  voice  of  wonderful 
sweetness,  that  such  a  gift  would  make  her  son's  for. 
tune  anywhere,  and  found  that  the  subject  was  the 
cause  of  much  anxiety  to  her.  She  feared  lest  it 
should  be  the  ruination  of  him  —  lest  he  should  pros- 
titute it  to  the  service  of  the  devil,  as  she  put  it, 
rather  than  use  it  to  the  glory  of  God.  She  said  she 
had  rather  follow  him  to  his  grave  than  see  him  in 
the  opera  or  concert  hall,  singing  for  money.  She 
wanted  him  to  stick  to  his  work,  and  use  his  voice 
only  as  a  pious  and  sacred  gift.  When  I  asked  the 
young  man  to  come  and  sing  for  us  at  the  hotel,  the 
mother  was  greatly  troubled,  as  she  afterward  told 
me,  till  she  learned  we  were  stopping  at  a  temper- 
ance house.  But  the  young  man  seemed  not  at  all 
inclined  to  break  away  from  the  advice  of  his  mother. 
The  other  son  had  a  sweetheart  who  had  gone  to 
America,  and  he  was  looking  longingly  thitherward. 
He  showed  me  her  picture,  and  did  not  at  all  attempt 
to  conceal  from  me,  or  from  his  family,  his  interest 
in  the  original.  Indeed  one  would  have  said  there 
were  no  secrets  or  concealments  in  such  a  family,  and 
the  thorough  unaffected  piety  of  the  whole  house- 
hold, mingled  with  so  much  that  was  human  and 
racy  and  canny,  made  an  impression  upon  me  I  shall 
not  soon  forget.  This  family  was  probably  an  ex- 
ceptional one,  but  it  tinges  all  my  recollections  of 
emoky,  tall-chimneyed  Glasgow. 

A  Scotch  trait  of  quite  another  sort,  and  more  sug 


64 

gestive  of  Burns  than  of  Carlyle,  was  briefly  summar- 
ized in  an  item  of  statistics  which  I  used  to  read  in 
one  of  the  Edinburgh  papers  every  Monday  morning, 
namely,  that  of  the  births  registered  during  the  pre- 
vious week,  invariably  from  ten  to  twelve  per  cent, 
were  illegitimate.  The  Scotch  —  all  classes  of  them 
—  love  Burns  deep  down  in  their  hearts,  because  he 
has  expressed  them,  from  the  roots  up,  as  none  other 
has. 

When  I  think  of  Edinburgh  the  vision  that  comes 
before  my  mind's  eye  is  of  a  city  presided  over,  and 
shone  upon  as  it  were,  by  two  green  treeless  heights. 
Arthur  Seat  is  like  a  great  irregular  orb  or  half- 
orb,  rising  above  the  near  horizon  there  in  the 
southeast,  and  dominating  city  and  country  with  its 
unbroken  verdancy.  Its  greenness  seems  almost  to 
pervade  the  air  itself  —  a  slight  radiance  of  grass, 
there  in  the  eastern  skies.  No  description  of  Edin- 
burgh I  had  read  had  prepared  me  for  the  striking 
hill  features  that  look  down  upon  it.  There  is  a 
series  of  three  hills  which  culminate  in  Arthur  Seat, 
800  feet  high.  Upon  the  first  and  smaller  hill  stands 
the  Castle.  This  is  a  craggy,  precipitous  rock,  on 
three  sides,  but  sloping  down  into  a  broad  gentle 
expanse  toward  the  east,  where  the  old  city  of  Edin- 
burgh is  mainly  built,  —  as  if  it  had  flowed  out  of 
the  Castle  as  out  of  a  fountain,  and  spread  over  the 
adjacent  ground.  Just  beyond  the  point  where  it 
ceases,  rise  Salisbury  Crags  to  a  height  of  570  feet, 
turning  to  the  city  a  sheer  wall  of  rocks  like  the 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  55 

Palisades  of  the  Hudson.  From  its  brink  eastward 
again,  the  ground  slopes  in  a  broad  expanse  of  green- 
sward to  a  valley  called  Hunter's  Bog,  where  I  thought 
the  hunters  were  very  quiet  and  very  numerous  until 
I  saw  they  were  city  riflemen  engaged  in  target  prac- 
tice ;  thence  it  rises  irregularly  to  the  crest  of  Arthur 
Seat,  forming  the  pastoral  eminence  and  green-shining 
disk  to  which  I  have  referred.  Along  the  crest  of 
Salisbury  Crags  the  thick  turf  comes  to  the  edge  of 
the  precipices,  as  one  might  stretch  a  carpet.  It  is 
so  firm  and  compact  that  the  boys  cut  their  initials 
in  it,  on  a  large  scale,  with  their  jack-knives,  as  in 
the  bark  of  a  tree.  Arthur  Seat  was  a  favorite  walk 
of  Carlyle's  during  those  gloomy  days  in  Edinburgh 
in  1820-21.  It  was  a  mount  of  vision  to  him,  and  he 
apparently  went  there  every  day  when  the  weather 
permitted.1 

There  was  no  road  in  Scotland  or  England  which 
I  should  have  been  so  glad  to  have  walked  over  as 
;hat  from  Edinburgh  to  Ecclefechan,  —  a  distance 
'•overed  many  times  by  the  feet  of  him  whose  birth 
md  burial  place  I  was  about  to  visit.  Carlyle  as  a 
roung  man  had  walked  it  with  Edward  Irving  (the 
vScotch  say  "  travel "  when  they  mean  going  afoot), 
and  he  had  walked  it  alone,  and  as  a  lad  with  an 
elder  boy,  on  his  way  to  Edinburgh  college.  He 
says  in  his  "  Reminiscences  "  he  nowhere  else  had  such 
affectionate,  sad,  thoughtful,  and  in  fact  interesting 
and  salutary  journeys.  "No  company  to  you  but 
1  See  letter  to  his  brother  John,  March  9,  1821. 


56  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

the  rustle  of  the  grass  under  foot,  the  tinkling  of  the 
brook,  or  the  voices  of  innocent,  primeval  things." 
"  I  have  had  days  as  clear  as  Italy  (as  in  this  Irving 
case)  ;  days  moist  and  dripping,  overhung  with  the 
infinite  of  silent  gray,  —  and  perhaps  the  latter  were 
the  preferable,  in  certain  moods.  You  had  the  world 
and  its  waste  imbroglios  of  joy  and  woe,  of  light  and 
darkness,  to  yourself  alone.  You  could  strip  bare- 
foot, if  it  suited  better ;  carry  shoes  and  socks  over 
shoulder,  hung  on  your  stick ;  clean  shirt  and  comb 
were  in  your  pocket ;  omnia  mea  mecum  porto.  You 
lodged  with  shepherds,  who  had  clean,  solid  cottages ; 
wholesome  eggs,  milk,  oatmeal  porridge,  clean  blan- 
kets to  their  beds,  and  a  great  deal  of  human  sense 
and  unadulterated  natural  politeness." 

But  how  can  one  walk  a  hundred  miles  in  cool 
blood  without  a  companion,  especially  when  the  trains 
run  every  hour,  and  he  has  a  surplus  sovereign  in  his 
pocket?  One  saves  time  and  consults  his  ease  by 
riding,  but  he  thereby  misses  the  real  savor  of  the 
land.  And  the  roads  of  this  compact  little  kingdom 
are  so  inviting,  like  a  hard,  smooth  surface  covered 
with  sand-paper !  How  easy  the  foot  puts  them  be- 
hind it !  And  the  summer  weather,  —  what  a  fresh 
under-stratum  the  air  has  even  on  the  warmest  days ! 
Every  breath  one  draws  has  a  cool,  invigorating  core 
to  it,  as  if  there  might  be  some  unmelted,  or  just 
melted,  frost  not  far  off. 

But  as  we  did  not  walk,  there  was  satisfaction  in 
knowing  that  the  engine  which  took  our  train  down 


I  \ . 

IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.^^      57 

from  Edinburgh  was  named  Thomas  Carlyle.  The 
cognomen  looked  well  on  the  toiling,  fiery-hearted, 
iron-browed  monster.  I  think  its  original  owner 
would  have  contemplated  it  with  grim  pleasure,  es- 
pecially since  he  confesses  to  having  spent  some  time, 
once,  in  trying  to  look  up  a  ship-master  who  had 
named  his  vessel  for  him.  Here  was  a  hero  after  his 
own  sort,  a  leader  by  the  divine  right  of  the  expansive 
power  of  steam. 

The  human  faculties  of  observation  have  not  yet 
adjusted  themselves  to  the  flying  train.  Steam  has 
clapped  wings  to  our  shoulders  without  the  power  to 
soar ;  we  get  bird's-eye  views  without  the  bird's  eyes 
or  the  bird's  elevation,  distance  without  breadth,  de- 
tail without  mass.  If  such  speed  only  gave  us  a  pro- 
portionate extent  of  view,  if  this  leisure  of  the  eye 
were  only  mated  to  an  equal  leisure  in  the  glance ! 
Indeed,  when  one  thinks  of  it,  how  near  railway 
traveling,  as  a  means  of  seeing  a  country,  comes,  ex- 
cept in  the  discomforts  of  it,  to  being  no  traveling  at 
all !  It  is  like  being  tied  to  your  chair,  and  being 
jolted  and  shoved  about  at  home.  The  landscape  is 
turned  topsy-turvy.  The  eye  sustains  unnatural  re- 
lations to  all  but  the  most  distant  objects.  We  move 
in  an  arbitrary  plane,  and  seldom  is  anything  seen 
from  the  proper  point,  or  with  the  proper  sympathy 
of  coordinate  position.  We  shall  have  to  wait  for 
the  air  ship  to  give  us  the  triumph  over  space  in 
which  the  eye  can  share.  Of  this  flight  south  from 
Edinburgh  ou  that  bright  summer  day,  I  keep  only 


68  IN  CARLYLE  S  COUNTRY. 

the  most  general  impression.  I  recall  how  clean  and 
naked  the  country  looked,  lifted  up  in  broad  hill 
slopes,  naked  of  forests  and  trees  and  weedy,  bushy 
growths,  and  of  everything  that  would  hide  or  ob- 
scure its  unbroken  verdancy,  —  the  one  impression 
that  of  a  universe  of  grass,  as  in  the  arctic  regions  it 
might  be  one  of  snow ;  the  mountains,  pastoral  soli- 
tudes ;  the  vales,  emerald  vistas. 

Not  to  be  entirely  cheated  out  of  my  walk,  I  left 
the  train  at  Lockerby,  a  small  Scotch  market  town, 
and  accomplished  the  remainder  of  the  journey  to  Ec- 
clefechan  on  foot,  a  brief  six-mile  pull.  It  was  the 
first  day  of  June ;  the  afternoon  sun  was  shining 
brightly.  It  was  still  the  honeymoon  of  travel  with 
me,  not  yet  two  weeks  in  the  bonuie  land ;  the  road 
was  smooth  and  clean  as  the  floor  of  a  sea  beach,  and 
firmer,  and  my  feet  devoured  the  distance  with  right 
good  wilL  The  first  red  clover  had  just  bloomed,  as 
I  probably  would  have  found  it  that  day  had  I  taken 
a  walk  at  home ;  but,  like  the  people  I  met,  it  had  a 
ruddier  cheek  than  at  home.  I  observed  it  on  other 
occasions,  and  later  in  the  season,  and  noted  that  it 
had  more  color  than  in  this  country,  and  held  its 
bloom  longer.  All  grains  and  grasses  ripen  slower 
there  than  here,  the  season  is  so  much  longer  and 
cooler.  The  pink  and  ruddy  tints  are  more  common 
in  the  flowers  also.  The  bloom  of  the  blackberry  is 
often  of  a  decided  pink,  and  certain  white,  umbellif- 
erous plants,  like  yarrow,  have  now  and  then  a  rosy 
tinge.  The  little  white  daisy  ("go wan,"  the  Scotch 


59 

call  it)  is  tipped  with  crimson,  foretelling  the  scarlet 
poppies,  with  which  the  grain  fields  will  by  and  by 
be  splashed.  Prunella  (self-heal),  also,  is  of  a  deeper 
purple  than  with  us,  and  a  species  of  crane's-bill,  like 
our  wild  geranium,  is  of  a  much  deeper  and  stronger 
color.  On  the  other  hand,  their  ripened  fruits  and 
foliage  of  autumn  pale  their  ineffectual  colors  beside 
our  own. 

Among  the  farm  occupations,  that  which  most 
took  my  eye,  on  this  and  on  other  occasions,  was  the 
furrowing  of  the  land  for  turnips  and  potatoes ;  it  is 
done  with  such  absolute  precision.  It  recalled  Emer- 
son's statement  that  the  fields  in  this  island  look  as 
if  finished  with  a  pencil  instead  of  a  plow,  —  a  pencil 
and  a  ruler  in  this  case,  the  lines  were  so  straight  and 
so  uniform.  I  asked  a  farmer  at  work  by  the  road- 
side how  he  managed  it.  "  Ah,"  said  he,  "  a  Scotch- 
man's head  is  level."  Both  here  and  in  England, 
plowing  is  studied  like  a  fine  art ;  they  have  plowing 
matches,  and  offer  prizes  for  the  best  furrow.  In 
planting  both  potatoes  and  turnips  the  ground  is 
treated  alike,  grubbed,  plowed,  cross-plowed,  crushed, 
harrowed,  chain-harrowed,  and  rolled.  Every  sod 
and  tuft  of  uprooted  grass  are  carefully  picked  up  by 
women  and  boys,  and  burnt  or  carted  away ;  leaving 
the  surface  of  the  ground  like  a  clean  sheet  of  paper^ 
upon  which  the  plowman  is  now  to  inscribe  his  per. 
feet  lines.  The  plow  is  drawn  by  two  horses  ;  it  is  a 
long,  heavy  tool,  with  double  mould-boards,  and 
throws  the  earth  each  way.  In  opening  the  first  fui 


60  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

row  the  plowman  is  guided  by  stakes;  having  got 
this  one  perfect,  it  is  used  as  the  model  for  every 
subsequent  one,  and  the  land  is  thrown  into  ridges  as 
uniform  and  faultless  as  if  it  had  been  stamped  at  one 
stroke  with  a  die,  or  cast  in  a  mould.  It  is  so  from 
one  end  of  the  island  to  the  other ;  the  same  expert 
seems  to  have  done  the  work  in  every  plowed  and 
planted  field. 

Four  miles  from  Lockerby  I  came  to  Mainhill,  the 
name  of  a  farm  where  the  Carlyle  family  lived  many 
years,  and  where  Carlyle  first  read  Goethe,  "  in  a  dry 
ditch,"  Froude  says,  and  translated  "Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter."  The  land  drops  gently  away  to  the  south  and 
east,  opening  up  broad  views  in  these  directions,  but 
it  does  not  seem  to  be  the  bleak  and  windy  place 
Froude  describes  it.  The  crops  looked  good,  and  the 
fields  smooth  and  fertile.  The  soil  is  rather  a  stub- 
born clay,  nearly  the  same  as  one  sees  everywhere. 
A  sloping  field  adjoining  the  highway  was  being  got 
ready  for  turnips.  The  ridges  had  been  cast;  the 
farmer,  a  courteous  but  serious  and  reserved  man, 
was  sprinkling  some  commercial  fertilizer  in  the  fur- 
rows from  a  bag  slung  across  his  shoulders,  while  a 
boy,  with  a  horse  and  cart,  was  depositing  stable 
manure  in  the  same  furrows,  which  a  lassie,  in  clogs 
and  short  skirts,  was  evenly  distributing  with  a  fork. 
Certain  work  in  Scotch  fields  always  seems  to  be 
done  by  women  and  girls,  —  spreading  manure,  pull- 
\ng  weeds,  and  picking  up  sods,  —  while  they  take 
an  equal  hand  with  the  men  in  the  hay  and  harvest 
6elds. 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  61 

The  Carlyles  were  living  on  this  farm  while  their 
son  was  teaching  school  at  Annan,  and  later  at  Kir- 
caldy  with  Irving,  and  they  supplied  him  with  cheese, 
butter,  ham,  oatmeal,  etc.,  from  their  scanty  stores. 
A  new  farm-house  has  been  built  since  then,  though 
the  old  one  is  still  standing;  doubtless  the  same 
Carlyle's  father  refers  to  in  a  letter  to  his  son,  in 
1817,  as  being  under  way.  The  parish  minister  was 
expected  at  Mainhill.  "  Your  mother  was  very  anx- 
ious to  have  the  house  done  before  he  came,  or  else 
she  said  she  would  run  over  the  hill  and  hide  her- 
self." 

From  Mainhill  the  highway  descends  slowly  to  the 
village  of  Ecclefechan,  the  site  of  which  is  marked  to 
the  eye,  a  mile  or  more  away,  by  the  spire  of  the 
church  rising  up  against  a  background  of  Scotch  firs, 
which  clothe  a  hill  beyond.  I  soon  enter  the  main 
street  of  the  village,  which  in  Carlyle's  youth  had  an 
open  burn  or  creek  flowing  through  the  centre  of  it. 
This  has  been  covered  over  by  some  enterprising 
citizen,  and  instead  of  a  loitering  little  burn,  crossed 
by  numerous  bridges,  the  eye  is  now  greeted  by  a 
broad  expanse  of  small  cobble-stone.  The  cottages 
are  for  the  most  part  very  humble,  and  rise  from  the 
outer  edges  of  the  pavement,  as  if  the  latter  had  been 
turned  up  and  shaped  to  make  their  walls.  The 
church  is  a  handsome  brown  stone  structure,  of  re- 
cent date,  and  is  more  in  keeping  with  the  fine  fertile 
country  about  than  with  the  little  village  in  its  front. 
In  the  cemetery  back  of  it,  Carlyle  lies  buried.  As  I 


62  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

approached,  a  girl  sat  by  the  road-side,  near  the  gate, 
combing  her  black  locks  and  arranging  her  toilet; 
waiting,  as  it  proved,  for  her  mother  and  brother, 
who  lingered  in  the  village.  A  couple  of  boys  were 
cutting  nettles  against  the  hedge ;  for  the  pigs,  they 
said,  after  the  sting  had  been  taken  out  of  them  by 
boiling.  Across  the  street  from  the  cemetery  the 
cows  of  the  villagers  were  grazing. 

I  must  have  thought  it  would  be  as  easy  to  distin- 
guish Carlyle's  grave  from  the  others  as  it  was  to 
distinguish  the  man  while  living,  or  his  fame  when 
dead;  for  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  ask  in  what 
part  of  the  inclosure  it  was  placed.  Hence,  when  I 
found  myself  inside  the  gate,  which  opens  from  the 
Annan  road  through  a  high  stone  wall,  I  followed 
the  most  worn  path  toward  a  new  and  imposing-look- 
ing monument  on  the  far  side  of  the  cemetery ;  and 
the  edge  of  my  fine  emotion  was  a  good  deal  dulled 
against  the  marble  when  I  found  it  bore  a  strange 
name.  I  tried  others,  and  still  others,  but  was  disap- 
pointed. I  found  a  long  row  of  Carlyles,  but  he 
whom  I  sought  was  not  among  them.  My  pilgrim 
enthusiasm  felt  itself  needlessly  hindered  and  chilled. 
How  many  rebuffs  could  one  stand  ?  Carlyle  dead, 
then,  was  the  same  as  Carlyle  living;  sure  to  take 
you  down  a  peg  or  two  when  you  came  to  lay  your 
homage  at  his  feet. 

Presently  I  saw  "  Thomas  Carlyle  "  on  a  big  mar- 
ble slab  that  stood  in  a  family  inclosure.  But  this 
turned  out  to  be  the  name  of  a  nephew  of  the  great 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  63 

Thomas.  -However,  I  had  struck  the  right  plat  at 
last ;  here  were  the  Carlyles  I  was  looking  for,  within 
a  space  probably  of  eight  by  sixteen  feet,  surrounded 
by  a  high  iron  fence.  The  latest  made  grave  was 
higher  and  fuller  than  the  rest,  but  it  had  no  stone  or 
mark  of  any  kind  to  distinguish  it.  Since  my  visit,  I 
believe,  a  stone  or  monument  of  some  kind  has  been 
put  up.  A  few  daisies  and  the  pretty  blue-eyed  speed- 
well were  growing  amid  the  grass  upon  it.  The  great 
man  lies  with  his  head  toward  the  south  or  south- 
west, with  his  mother,  sister,  and  father  to  the  right 
of  him,  and  his  brother  John  to  the  left.  I  was  glad 
to  learn  that  the  high  iron  fence  was  not  his  own  sug- 
gestion. His  father  had  put  it  around  the  family 
plat  in  his  life-time.  Carlyle  would  have  liked  to 
have  it  cut  down  about  half-way.  The  whole  look 
of  this  cemetery,  except  in  the  extraordinary  size  of 
the  head-stones,  was  quite  American,  it  being  back 
of  the  church,  and  separated  from  it,  a  kind  of  mor- 
tuary garden,  instead  of  surrounding  it  and  running 
under  it,  as  is  the  case  with  the  older  churches.  I 
noted  here,  as  I  did  elsewhere,  that  the  custom  pre- 
vails of  putting  the  trade  or  occupation  of  the  de- 
ceased upon  his  stone :  So-and-So,  mason,  or  tailor, 
or  carpenter,  or  farmer,  etc. 

A  young  man  and  his  wife  were  working  in  a 
nursery  of  young  trees,  a  few  paces  from  the  graves, 
and  I  conversed  with  them  through  a  thin  place  in 
the  hedge.  They  said  they  had  seen  Carlyle  many 
times,  and  seemed  to  hold  him  in  proper  esteem  and 


64 

reverence.  The  young  man  had  seen  him  come  in 
summer  and  stand,  with  uncovered  head,  beside  the 
graves  of  his  father  and  mother.  "And  long  and 
reverently  did  he  remain  there,  too,"  said  the  young 
gardener.  I  learned  this  was  Carlyle's  invariable 
custom :  every  summer  did  he  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
this  spot,  and  with  bared  head  linger  beside  these 
graves.  The  last  time  he  came,  which  was  a  couple 
of  years  before  he  died,  he  was  so  feeble  that  two  per- 
sons sustained  him  while  he  walked  into  the  cemetery. 
This  observance  recalls  a  passage  from  his  "  Past  and 
Present."  Speaking  of  the  religious  custom  of  the 
Emperor  of  China,  he  says,  "  He  and  his  three  hun- 
dred millions  (it  is  their  chief  punctuality)  visit  yearly 
the  Tombs  of  their  Fathers ;  each  man  the  Tomb  of 
his  Father  and  his  Mother;  alone  there  in  silence 
with  what  of  *  worship '  or  of  other  thought  there  may 
be,  pauses  solemnly  each  man  ;  the  divine  Skies  all 
silent  over  him ;  the  divine  Graves,  and  this  divinest 
Grave,  all  silent  under  him  ;  the  pulsings  of  his  own 
soul,  if  he  have  any  soul,  alone  audible.  Truly  it  may 
be  a  kind  of  worship !  Truly,  if  a  man  cannot  get 
some  glimpse  into  the  Eternities,  looking  through  this 
portal, —  through  what  other  need  he  try  it  ?  " 

Carlyle's  reverence  and  affection  for  his  kindred 
were  among  his  most  beautiful  traits,  and  make  up 
in  some  measure  for  the  contempt  he  felt  toward  the 
rest  of  mankind.  The  family  stamp  was  never  more 
strongly  set  upon  a  man,  and  no  family  ever  had  a 
more  original,  deeply  cut  pattern  than  that  of  the 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  65 

Carlyles.  Generally,  iu  great  men  who  emerge  from 
obscure  peasant  homes,  the  genius  of  the  family  takes 
an  enormous  leap,  or  is  completely  metamorphosed ; 
but  Carlyle  keeps  all  the  paternal  lineaments  un- 
faded ;  he  is  his  father  and  his  mother,  touched  to 
finer  issues.  That  wonderful  speech  of  his  sire, 
which  all  who  knew  him  feared,  has  lost  nothing  in 
the  son,  but  is  tremendously  augmented,  and  cuts  like 
a  Damascus  sword,  or  crushes  like  a  sledge-hammer. 
The  strongest  and  finest  paternal  traits  have  sur- 
vived in  him.  Indeed,  a  little  congenital  rill  seems 
to  have  cotne  all  the  way  down  from  the  old  vikings. 
Carlyle  is  not  merely  Scotch ;  he  is  Norselandic. 
There  is  a  marked  Scandinavian  flavor  in  him  ;  a 
touch,  or  more  than  a  touch,  of  the  rude,  brawling, 
bullying,  hard-hitting,  wrestling  viking  times.  The 
hammer  of  Thor  antedates  the  hammer  of  his  stone- 
mason sire  in  him.  He  is  Scotland,  past  and  pres- 
ent, moral  and  physical.  John  Knox  and  the  Cov- 
enanters survive  in  him  :  witness  his  religious  zeal, 
his  depth  and  solemnity  of  conviction,  his  strugglings 
and  agonizings,  his  "  conversion."  Ossian  survives 
in  him :  behold  that  melancholy  retrospect,  that 
gloom,  that  melodious  wail.  And  especially,  as  I 
have  said,  do  his  immediate  ancestors  survive  in  him, 
—  his  sturdy,  toiling,  fiery-tongued,  clannish  yeoman 
progenitors  :  all  are  summed  up  here ;  this  is  the 
net  result  available  for  literature  in  the  nineteenth 
century. 

Carlyle's  heart  was  always  here  in  Scotland.     A 
5 


66  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

vague,  yearning  homesickness  seemed  ever  to  possess 
him.  "  The  Hill  I  first  saw  the  Sun  rise  over,"  he 
says  in  "Past  and  Present,"  "  when  the  Sun  and  I  and 
all  things  were  yet  in  their  auroral  hour,  who  can 
divorce  me  from  it  ?  Mystic,  deep  as  the  world's  cen- 
tre, are  the  roots  I  have  struck  into  my  Native  Soil ; 
no  tree  that  grows  is  rooted  so."  How  that  mournful 
retrospective  glance  haunts  his  pages  !  His  race,  gen- 
eration upon  generation,  had  toiled  and  wrought  here 
amid  the  lonely  moors,  had  wrestled  with  poverty  and 
privation,  had  wrung  the  earth  for  a  scanty  subsis- 
tence, till  they  had  become  identified  with  the  soil, 
kindred  with  it.  How  strong  the  family  ties  had 
grown  in  the  struggle ;  how  the  sentiment  of  home 
was  fostered !  Then  the  Carlyles  were  men  who  lav- 
ished their  heart  and  conscience  upon  their  work; 
they  builded  themselves,  their  days,  their  thoughts 
and  sorrows,  into  their  houses ;  they  leavened  the  soil 
with  the  sweat  of  their  rugged  brows.  When  James 
Carlyle,  his  father,  after  a  lapse  of  fifty  years,  saw 
Auldgarth  bridge,  upon  which  he  had  worked  as  a 
lad,  he  was  deeply  moved.  When  Carlyle  in  his  turn 
saw  it,  and  remembered  his  father  and  all  he  had  told 
him,  he  also  was  deeply  moved.  "  It  was  as  if  half  a 
century  of  past  time  had  fatefully  for  moments  turned 
back."  Whatever  these  men  touched  with  their 
hands  in  honest  toil  became  sacred  to  them,  a  page 
out  of  their  own  lives.  A  silent,  inarticulate  kind 
of  religion  they  put  into  their  work.  All  this  bore 
fruit  in  their  distinguished  descendant.  It  gave  him 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  67 

that  reverted,  half-mournful  gaze  ;  the  ground  was 
hallowed  behind  him ;  his  dead  called  to  him  from 
their  graves.  Nothing  deepens  and  intensifies  fam- 
ily traits  like  poverty  and  toil  and  suffering.  It  is 
the  furnace  heat  that  brings  out  the  characters,  the 
pressure  that  makes  the  strata  perfect.  One  recalls 
Carlyle's  grandmother  getting  her  children  up  late 
at  night,  his  father  one  of  them,  to  break  their  long 
fast  with  oaten  cakes  from  the  meal  that  had  but 
just  arrived;  making  the  fire  from  straw  taken  from 
their  beds.  Surely,  such  things  reach  the  springs  of 
being. 

It  seemed  eminently  fit  that  Carlyle's  dust  should 
rest  here  in  his  native  soil,  with  that  of  his  kindred, 
he  was  so  thoroughly  one  of  them,  and  that  his  place 
should  be  next  his  mother's,  between  whom  and  him- 
self there  existed  such  strong  affection.  I  recall  a 
little  glimpse  he  gives  of  his  mother  in  a  letter  to 
his  brother  John,  while  the  latter  was  studying  in 
Germany.  His  mother  had  visited  him  in  Edin- 
burgh. "I  had  her,"  he  writes,  "at  the  pier  of 
Leith,  and  showed  her  where  your  ship  vanished; 
and  she  looked  over  the  blue  waters  eastward  with 
wettish  eyes,  and  asked  the  dumb  waves  *  when  he 
would  be  back  again.'  Good  mother." 

To  see  more  of  Ecclefechan  and  its  people,  and  to 
browse  more  at  my  leisure  about  the  country,  I 
brought  my  wife  and  youngster  down  from  Lock- 
erby;  and  we  spent  several  days  there,  putting  up 
at  the  quiet  and  cleanly  little  Bush  Inn.  I  tramped 


68  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

much  about  the  neighborhood,  noting  the  birds,  the 
wild  flowers,  the  people,  the  farm  occupations,  etc. : 
going  one  afternoon  to  Scotsbrig,  where  the  Carlyles 
lived  after  they  left  Mainhill,  and  where  both  father 
and  mother  died ;  one  day  to  Annan,  another  to  Re- 
pentance Hill,  another  over  the  hill  toward  Kirtle- 
bridge,  tasting  the  land,  and  finding  it  good.  It  is  an 
evidence  of  how  permanent  and  unchanging  things  are 
here  that  the  house  where  Carlyle  was  born,  eighty- 
seven  years  ago,  and  which  his  father  built,  stands 
just  as  it  did  then,  and  looks  good  for  several  hun- 
dred years  more.  In  going  up  to  the  little  room 
where  he  first  saw  the  light,  one  ascends  the  much- 
worn  but  original  stone  stairs,  and  treads  upon  the 
original  stone  floors.  I  suspect  that  even  the  window 
panes  in  the  little  window  remain  the  same.  The 
village  is  a  very  quiet  and  humble  one,  paved  with 
small  cobble-stone,  over  which  one  hears  the  clatter  of 
the  wooden  clogs,  the  same  as  in  Carlyle's  early  days. 
The  pavement  comes  quite  up  to  the  low,  modest, 
stone-floored  houses,  and  one  steps  from  the  street 
directly  into  most  of  them.  When  an  Englishman 
or  a  Scotchman  of  the  humbler  ranks  builds  a  house 
in  the  country,  he  either  turns  its  back  upon  the  high- 
way, or  places  it  several  rods  distant  from  it,  with 
sheds  or  stables  between  ;  or  else  he  surrounds  it 
with  a  high,  massive  fence,  shutting  out  your  view 
entirely.  In  the  village  he  crowds  it  to  the  front ; 
continues  the  street  pavement  into  his  hall,  if  he  can ; 
allows  no  fence  or  screen  between  it  and  the  street, 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  69 

but  makes  the  communication  between  the  two  as 
easy  and  open  as  possible.  At  least  this  is  the  case 
with  most  of  the  older  houses.  Hence  village  houses 
and  cottages  in  Britain  are  far  less  private  and  se- 
cluded than  ours,  and  country  houses  far  less  pub- 
lic. The  only  feature  of  Ecclefechan,  besides  the 
church,  that  distinguishes  it  from  the  humblest  peas- 
ant village  of  an  hundred  years  ago,  is  the  large,  fine 
stone  structure  used  for  the  public  school.  It  con- 
fers a  sort  of  distinction  upon  the  place,  as  if  it  were 
in  some  way  connected  with  the  memory  of  its  fa- 
mous son.  I  think  I  was  informed  that  he  had  some 
hand  in  founding  it.  The  building  in  which  he  first 
attended  school  is  a  low,  humble  dwelling,  that  now 
stands  behind  the  church,  and  forms  part  of  the 
boundary  between  the  cemetery  and  the  Annan  road. 
From  our  window  I  used  to  watch  the  laborers  on 
their  way  to  their  work,  the  children  going  to  school, 
or  to  the  pump  for  water,  and  night  and  morning 
the  women  bringing  in  their  cows  from  the  pasture 
to  be  milked.  In  the  long  June  gloaming  the  evening 
milking  was  not  done  till  about  nine  o'clock.  On 
two  occasions,  the  first  in  a  brisk  rain,  a  bedraggled, 
forlorn,  deeply-hooded,  youngish  woman,  came  slowly 
through  the  street,  pausing  here  and  there,  and  sing- 
ing in  wild,  melancholy,  and  not  un  pi  easing  strains. 
Her  voice  had  a  strange  piercing  plaintiveness  and 
wildness.  Now  and  then  some  passer-by  would  toss 
a  penny  at  her  feet.  The  pretty  Edinburgh  lass,  her 
hair  redder  than  Scotch  gold,  that  waited  upon  us  at 


70 

the  inn,  went  out  in  the  rain  and  put  a  penny  in  her 
hand.  After  a  few  pennies  had  been  collected  the 
music  would  stop,  and  the  singer  disappear,  —  to  drink 
up  her  gains,  I  half  suspect,  but  do  not  know.  I 
noticed  that  she  was  never  treated  with  rudeness  or 
disrespect.  The  boys  would  pause  and  regard  her 
occasionally,  but  made  no  remark,  or  gesture,  or 
grimace.  One  afternoon  a  traveling  show  pitched 
its  tent  in  the  broader  part  of  the  street,  and  by 
diligent  grinding  of  a  hand-organ  summoned  all  the 
children  of  the  place  to  see  the  wonders.  The  ad- 
mission was  one  penny,  and  I  went  in  with  the  rest, 
and  saw  the  little  man,  the  big  dog,  the  happy  fam- 
ily, and  the  gaping,  dirty-faced,  but  orderly  crowd  of 
boys  and  girls.  The  Ecclefechan  boys,  with  some 
of  whom  I  tried,  not  very  successfully,  to  scrape  an 
acquaintance,  I  found  a  sober,  quiet,  modest  set,  shy 
of  strangers,  and,  like  all  country  boys,  incipient 
naturalists.  If  you  want  to  know  where  the  birds'- 
nests  are,  ask  the  boys.  Hence,  one  Sunday  after- 
noon, meeting  a  couple  of  them  on  the  Annan  road, 
I  put  the  inquiry.  They  looked  rather  blank  and 
unresponsive  at  first ;  but  I  made  them  understand  I 
was  in  earnest,  and  wished  to  be  shown  some  nests. 
To  stimulate  their  ornithology  I  offered  a  penny  for 
the  first  nest,  twopence  for  the  second,  threepence  for 
the  third,  etc.,  —  a  reward  that,  as  it  turned  out, 
lightened  my  burden  of  British  copper  considerably  ; 
for  these  boys  appeared  to  know  every  nest  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  I  suspect  had  just  then  been  mak- 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  71 

ing  Sunday  calls  upon  their  feathered  friends.  They 
turned  about,  with  a  bashful  smile,  but  without  a 
word,  and  marched  me  a  few  paces  along  the  road, 
when  they  stepped  to  the  hedge,  and  showed  me  a 
hedge-sparrow's  nest  with  young.  The  mother-bird 
was  near,  with  food  in  her  beak.  This  nest  is  a  great 
favorite  of  the  cuckoo,  and  is  the  one  to  which 
Shakespeare  refers  :  — 

"  The  hedge-sparrow  fed  the  cuckoo  so  long 
That  it  had  its  head  bit  off  by  its  young." 

The  bird  is  not  a  sparrow  at  all,  but  is  a  warbler, 
closely  related  to  the  nightingale.  Then  they  con- 
ducted me  along  a  pretty  by-road,  and  parted  away 
the  branches,  and  showed  me  a  sparrow's  nest  with 
eggs  in  it.  A  group  of  wild  pansies,  the  first  I  had 
seen,  made  bright  the  bank  near  it.  Next,  after 
conferring  a  moment  soberly  together,  they  took  me 
to  a  robin's  nest,  —  a  warm,  mossy  structure  in  the 
side  of  the  bank.  Then  we  wheeled  up  another  road, 
and  they  disclosed  the  nest  of  the  yellow  yite,  or 
yellow-hammer,  a  bird  of  the  sparrow  kind,  also  upon 
the  ground.  It  seemed  to  have  a  little  platform  of 
coarse,  dry  stalks,  like  a  door-stone,  in  front  of  it.  In 
the  mean  time  they  had  showed  me  several  nests  of 
the  hedge-sparrow,  and  one  of  the  shelfa,  or  chaffinch, 
that  had  been  "  harried,"  as  the  boys  said,  or  robbed. 
These  were  gratuitous  and  merely  by  the  way.  Then 
they  pointed  out  to  me  the  nest  of  a  tomtit  in  a  dis- 
used pump  that  stood  near  the  cemetery  ;  after  which 
they  proposed  to  conduct  me  to  a  chaffinch's  nest  and 


72  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

a  blackbird's  nest ;  but  I  said  I  had  already  seen 
several  of  these  and  my  curiosity  was  satisfied.  Did 
they  know  any  others  ?  Yes,  several  of  them ; 
beyond  the  village,  on  the  Middlebie  road,  they  knew 
a  wren's  nest  with  eighteen  eggs  in  it.  Well,  I 
would  see  that,  and  that  would  be  enough ;  the  cop- 
pers were  changing  pockets  too  fast.  So  through  the 
village  we  went,  and  along  the  Middlebie  road  for 
nearly  a  mile.  The  boys  were  as  grave  and  silent  as  if 
they  were  attending  a  funeral ;  not  a  remark,  not  a 
smile.  We  walked  rapidly.  The  afternoon  was  warm, 
for  Scotland,  and  the  tips  of  their  ears  glowed  through 
their  locks,  as  they  wiped  their  brows.  I  began  to 
feel  as  if  I  had  had  about  enough  walking  myself. 
"  Boys,  how  much  farther  is  it  ?  "  I  said.  "  A  wee 
bit  farther,  sir ;  "  and  presently,  by  their  increasing 
pace,  I  knew  we  were  nearing  it.  It  proved  to  be  the 
nest  of  the  willow  wren,  or  willow  warbler,  an  ex- 
quisite structure,  with  a  dome  or  canopy  above  it, 
the  cavity  lined  with  feathers  and  crowded  with  eggs. 
But  it  did  not  contain  eighteen.  The  boys  said  they 
had  been  told  that  the  bird  would  lay  as  many  as 
eighteen  eggs ;  but  it  is  the  common  wren  that  lays 
this  number,  —  even  more.  What  struck  me  most 
was  the  gravity  and  silent  earnestness  of  the  boys. 
As  we  walked  back  they  showed  me  more  nests  that 
had  been  harried.  The  elder  boy's  name  was  Thomas. 
He  had  heard  of  Thomas  Carlyle  ;  but  when  I  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  him,  he  only  looked  awk- 
wardly upon  the  ground. 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  73 

I  had  less  trouble  to  get  the  opinion  of  an  old 
road-inender  whom  I  fell  in  with  one  day.  I  was 
walking  toward  Repentance  Hill,  when  he  overtook 
me  with  his  "  machine  "  (all  road  vehicles  in  Scot- 
land are  called  machines),  and  insisted  upon  my  get- 
ting up  beside  him.  He  had  a  little  white  pony, 
"twenty-one  years  old,  sir,"  and  a  heavy,  rattling 
two-wheeler,  quite  as  old  I  should  say.  We  dis- 
coursed about  roads.  Had  we  good  roads  in  America  ? 
No  ?  Had  we  no  "  metal  "  there,  no  stone  ?  Plenty 
of  it,  I  told  him,  —  too  much;  but  we  had  not 
learned  the  art  of  road-making  yet.  Then  he  would 
have  to  come  "  out "  and  show  us ;  indeed,  he  had 
been  seriously  thinking  about  it ;  he  had  an  uncle  in 
America,  but  had  lost  all  track  of  him.  He  had 
seen  Carlyle  many  a  time,  "but  the  people  here  took 
no  interest  in  that  man,"  he  said ;  "  he  never  done 
nothing  for  this  place."  Referring  to  Carlyle's  an- 
cestors, he  said,  "  The  Cairls  were  what  we  Scotch 
call  bullies,  —  a  set  of  bullies,  sir.  If  you  crossed 
their  path,  they  would  murder  you ; "  and  then  came 
out  some  highly  -  colored  tradition  of  the  "  Eccle- 
fechan  dog  fight,"  which  Carlyle  refers  to  in  his 
Reminiscences.  On  this  occasion,  the  old  road- 
mender  said,  the  "  Cairls  "  had  clubbed  together,  and 
bullied  and  murdered  half  the  people  of  the  place! 
"  No,  sir,  we  take  no  interest  in  that  man  here,"  and 
he  gave  the  pony  a  sharp  punch  with  his  stub  of  a 
whip.  But  he  himself  took  a  friendly  interest  in  the 
school-girls  whom  we  overtook  along  the  road,  and 


74  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

kept  picking  them  up  till  the  cart  was  full,  and 
giving  the  "  lassies  "  a  lift  on  their  way  home.  Be- 
yond Annan  bridge  we  parted  company,  and  a  short 
walk  brought  me  to  Repentance  Hill,  a  grassy  emi- 
nence that  commands  a  wide  prospect  toward  the 
Solway.  The  tower  which  stands  on  the  top  is  one 
of  those  interesting  relics  of  which  this  land  is  full, 
and  all  memory  and  tradition  of  the  use  and  occasion 
of  which  are  lost.  It  is  a  rude  stone  structure,  about 
thirty  feet  square  and  forty  high,  pierced  by  a  single 
door,  with  the  word  "  Repentance  "  cut  in  Old  Eng- 
lish letters  in  the  lintel  over  it.  The  walls  are  loop- 
holed  here  and  there,  for  musketry  or  archery.  An 
old  disused  grave-yard  surrounds  it,  and  the  walls  of 
a  little  chapel  stand  in  the  rear  of  it.  The  conies 
have  their  holes  under  it ;  some  lord,  whose  castle 
lies  in  the  valley  below,  has  his  flagstaff  upon  it ;  and 
Time's  initials  are  scrawled  on  every  stone.  A  piece 
of  mortar  probably  three  or  four  hundred  years  old, 
that  had  fallen  from  its  place,  I  picked  up,  and  found 
nearly  as  hard  as  the  stone,  and  quite  as  gray  and 
lichen-covered.  Returning,  I  stood  some  time  on . 
Annan  bridge,  looking  over  the  parapet  into  the 
clear,  swirling  water,  now  and  then  seeing  a  trout 
leap.  Whenever  the  pedestrian  comes  to  one  of 
these  arched  bridges,  he  must  pause  and  admire,  it 
is  so  unlike  what  he  is  acquainted  with  at  home.  It 
is  a  real  viaduct ;  it  conducts  not  merely  the  trav- 
eler over,  it  conducts  the  road  over  as  well.  Then 
an  arched  bridge  is  ideally  perfect ;  there  is  no  room 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  75 

for  criticism,  —  not  one  superfluous  touch  or  stroke  ; 
every  stone  tells,  and  tells  entirely.  Of  a  piece  of 
architecture,  we  can  say  this  or  that,  but  of  one  of 
these  old  bridges  this  only  :  it  satisfies  every  sense  of 
the  mind.  It  has  the  beauty  of  poetry,  and  the  pre- 
cision of  mathematics.  The  older  bridges,  like  this 
over  the  Annan,  are  slightly  hipped,  so  that  the  road 
rises  gradually  from  either  side  to  the  key  of  the 
arch  ;  this  adds  to  their  beauty,  and  makes  them 
look  more  like  things  of  life.  The  modern  bridges 
are  all  level  on  the  top,  which  increases  their  utility. 
Two  laborers,  gossiping  on  the  bridge,  said  I  could 
fish  by  simply  going  and  asking  leave  of  some  func- 
tionary about  the  castle. 

Shakespeare  says  of  the  martlet,  that  it 

"  Builds  in  the  weather  on  the  outward  wall, 
Even  in  the  force  and  road  of  casualty." 

I  noticed  that  a  pair  had  built  their  nest  on  an  iron 
bracket  under  the  eaves  of  a  building  opposite  our 
inn,  which  proved  to  be  in  the  "  road  of  casualty ;  " 
for  one  day  the  painters  began  scraping  the  building, 
preparatory  to  giving  it  a  new  coat  of  paint,  and  the 
"  procreant  cradle  "  was  knocked  down.  The  swal- 
lows did  not  desert  the  place,  however,  but  were  at 
work  again  next  morning  before  the  painters  were. 
The  Scotch,  by  the  way,  make  a  free  use  of  paint. 
They  even  paint  their  tombstones.  Most  of  them,  I 
observed,  were  brown  stones  painted  white.  Carlyle's 
father  once  sternly  drove  the  painters  from  his  door 
when  they  had  been  summoned  by  the  younger 


76  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

members  of  his  family  to  give  the  house  a  coat 
"  o'  pent."  "  Ye  can  jist  pent  the  bog  wi'  yer  ash- 
baket  feet,  for  ye  '11  pit  nane  o'  yer  glaur  on  ma 
door."  But  the  painters  have  had  their  revenge  at 
last,  and  their  "  glaur "  now  covers  the  old  man's 
tombstone. 

One  day  I  visited  a  little  overgrown  cemetery 
about  a  mile  below  the  village,  toward  Kirtlebridge, 
and  saw  many  of  the  graves  of  the  old  stock  of  Car- 
lyles,  among  them  some  of  Carlyle's  uncles.  This 
name  occurs  very  often  in  those  old  cemeteries  ;  they 
were  evidently  a  prolific  and  hardy  race.  The  name 
Thomas  is  a  favorite  one  among  them,  insomuch  that 
I  saw  the  graves  and  headstones  of  eight  Thomas 
Carlyles  in  the  two  grave-yards.  The  oldest  Car- 
lyle  tomb  I  saw  was  that  of  one  John  Carlyle,  who 
died  in  1692.  The  inscription  upon  his  stone  is  as 
follows  :  — 

"Heir  Lyes  John  Carlyle  of  Penerssaughs,  who 
departed  this  life  ye  17  of  May  1692,  and  of  age  72, 
and  His  Spouse  Jannet  Davidson,  who  departed  this 
life  Febr.  ye  7,  1708,  and  of  age  73.  Erected  by 
John,  his  son." 

The  old  sexton,  whom  I  frequently  saw  in  the 
church-yard,  lives  in  the  Carlyle  house.  He  knew 
the  family  well,  and  had  some  amusing  and  charac- 
teristic anecdotes  to  relate  of  Carlyle's  father,  the 
redoubtable  James,  mainly  illustrative  of  his  blunt- 
ness  and  plainness  of  speech.  The  sexton  pointed 
out,  with  evident  pride,  the  few  noted  graves  the 


77 

church-yard  held ;  that  of  the  elder  Peel  being  among 
them.  He  spoke  of  many  of  the  oldest  graves  as 
"  extinct ; "  nobody  owned  or  claimed  them ;  the 
name  had  disappeared,  arid  the  ground  was  used  a 
second  time.  The  ordinary  graves  in  these  old  bury- 
ing places  appear  to  become  "  extinct "  in  about  two 
hundred  years.  It  was  very  rare  to  find  a  date  older 
than  that-  He  said  the  "  Cairls  "  were  a  peculiar 
set;  there  was  nobody  like  them.  You  would  know 
them,  man  and  woman,  as  soon  as  they  opened  their 
mouths  to  speak;  they  spoke  as  if  against  a  stone 
wall.  (Their  words  hit  hard.)  This  is  somewhat 
like  Carlyle's  own  view  of  his  style.  "  My  style," 
he  says  in  his  note-book,  when  he  was  thirty-eight 
years  of  age,  "  is  like  no  other  man's.  The  first  sen- 
tence bewrays  me."  Indeed,  Carlyle's  style,  which 
has  been  so  criticised,  was  as  much  a  part  of  himself, 
and  as  little  an  affectation,  as  his  shock  of  coarse 
yeoman  hair  and  bristly  beard  and  bleared  eyes  were 
a  part  of  himself ;  he  inherited  them.  What  Taine 
calls  his  barbarisms  was  his  strong  mason  sire  crop- 
ping out.  He  was  his  father's  son  to  the  last  drop  of 
his  blood,  a  master  builder  working  with  might  and 
main.  No  more  did  the  former  love  to  put  a  rock 
face  upon  his  wall  than  did  the  latter  to  put  the  same 
rock  face  upon  his  sentences  ;  and  he  could  do  it, 
too,  as  no  other  writer,  ancient  or  mo'dern,  could. 

I  occasionally  saw  strangers  at  the  station,  which 
is  a  mile  from  the  village,  inquiring  their  way  to  the 
church-yard ;  but  I  was  told  there  had  been  a  notable 


78  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

falling  off  of  the  pilgrims  and  visitors,  of  late.  During 
the  first  few  months  after  his  burial,  they  nearly 
denuded  the  grave  of  its  turf ;  but  after  the  publica- 
tion of  the  Reminiscences,  the  number  of  silly  geese 
that  came  there  to  crop  the  grass  was  much  fewer. 
No  real  lover  of  Carlyle  was  eyer  disturbed  by  those 
Reminiscences  ;  but  to  the  throng  that  run  after  a 
man  because  he  is  famous,  and  that  chip  his  head- 
stone or  carry  away  the  turf  above  him  when  he  is 
dead,  they  were  happily  a  great  bugaboo. 

A  most  agreeable  walk  I  took  one  day  down  to 
Annan.  Irving's  name  still  exists  there,  but  I  believe 
all  his  near  kindred  have  disappeared.  Across  the 
street  from  the  little  house  where  he  was  born,  this 
sign  may  be  seen  :  "  Edward  Irving,  Flesher."  While 
in  Glasgow,  I  visited  Irving's  grave,  in  the  crypt  of 
the  cathedral,  a  most  dismal  place,  and  was  touched 
to  see  the  bronze  tablet  that  marked  its  site  in  the 
pavement  bright  and  shining,  while  those  about  it, 
of  Sir  this  or  Lady  that,  were  dull  and  tarnished. 
Did  some  devoted  hand  keep  it  scoured,  or  was  the 
polishing  done  by  the  many  feet  that  paused  thought- 
fully above  this  name  ?  Irving  would  long  since 
have  been  forgotten  by  the  world  had  it  not  been  for 
bis  connection  with  Carlyle,  and  it  was  probably  the 
lustre  of  the  latter's  memory  that  I  saw  reflected  in 
the  metal  that  bore  Irving's  name.  The  two  men 
must  have  been  of  kindred  genius  in  many  ways,  to 
have  been  so  drawn  to  each  other,  but  Irving  had 
far  less  hold  upon  reality ;  his  written  word  has  no 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  79 

projectile  force.  It  makes  a  vast  difference  whether 
you  burn  gunpowder  on  a  shovel  or  in  a  gun-barrel. 
Irving  may  be  said  to  have  made  a  brilliant  flash, 
and  then  to  have  disappeared  in  the  smoke. 

Some  men  are  like  nails,  easily  drawn  ;  others  are 
like  rivets,  not  drawable  at  all.  Carlyle  is  a  rivet, 
well  headed  in.  He  is  not  going  to  give  way,  and  be 
forgotten  soon.  People  who  differed  from  him  in 
opinion  have  stigmatized  him  as  an  actor,  a  mounte- 
bank, a  rhetorician  ;  but  he  was  committed  to  his 
purpose  and  to  the  part  he  played  with  the  force  of 
gravity.  Behold  how  he  toiled !  He  says,  "  One 
monster  there  is  in  the  world :  the  idle  man."  He 
did  not  merely  preach  the  gospel  of  work  ;  he  was  it, 
—  an  indomitable  worker  from  first  to  last.  How  he 
delved !  How  he  searched  for  a  sure  foundation,  like 
a  master  builder,  fighting  his  way  through  rubbish 
and  quicksands  till  he  reached  the  rock !  Each  of  his 
review  articles  cost  him  a  month  or  more  of  serious 
work.  "  Sartor  Resartus  "  cost  him  nine  months,  the 
"  French  Revolution  "  three  years,  "  Cromwell "  four 
years,  "  Frederick  "  thirteen  years.  No  surer  does 
the  Auldgarth  bridge,  that  his  father  helped  build, 
carry  the  traveler  over  the  turbulent  water  beneath 
it,  than  these  books  convey  the  reader  over  chasms 
and  confusions,  where  before  there  was  no  way,  or 
only  an  inadequate  one.  Carlyle  never  wrote  a  book 
except  to  clear  some  gulf  or  quagmire,  to  span  and 
conquer  some  chaos.  No  architect  or  engineer  ever 
had  purpose  more  tangible  and  definite.  To  further 


80  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

the  reader  on  his  way,  not  to  beguile  or  amuse  him, 
was  always  his  purpose.  He  had  that  contempt  for 
all  dallying  and  toying  and  lightness  and  frivolous- 
ness  that  hard,  serious  workers  always  have.  He 
was  impatient  of  poetry  and  art;  they  savored  too 
much  of  play  and  levity.  His  own  work  was  not 
done  lightly  and  easily,  but  with  labor  throes  and 
pains,  as  of  planting  his  piers  in  a  weltering  flood  and 
chaos.  The  spirit  of  struggling  and  wrestling  which 
he  had  inherited  was  always  uppermost.  It  seems 
as  if  the  travail  and  yearning  of  his  mother  had 
passed  upon  him  as  a  birth-mark.  The  universe  was 
madly  rushing  about  him,  seeking  to  engulf  him. 
Things  assumed  threatening  and  spectral  shapes. 
There  was  little  joy  or  serenity  for  him.  -Every 
task  he  proposed  to  himself  was  a  struggle  with 
chaos  and  darkness,  real  or  imaginary.  He  speaks 
of  "  Frederick "  as  a  nightmare ;  the  "  Cromwell 
business"  as  toiling  amid  mountains  of  dust.  I  know 
of  no  other  man  in  literature  with  whom  the  sense  of 
labor  is  so  tangible  and  terrible.  That  vast,  grim, 
struggling,  silent,  inarticulate  array  of  ancestral  force 
that  lay  in  him,  when  the  burden  of  written  speech 
was  laid  upon  it,  half  rebelled,  and  would  not  cease 
to  struggle  and  be  inarticulate.  There  was  a  pleth- 
ora of  power  :  a  channel,  as  through  rocks,  had  to 
be  made  for  it,  and  there  was  an  incipient  cataclysm 
whenever  a  book  was  to  be  written.  What  brings 
joy  and  buoyancy  to  other  men,  namely,  a  genial 
task,  brought  despair  and  convulsions  to  him.  It  is 


IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY.  81 

not  the  effort  of  composition,  —  lie  was  a  rapid  and 
copious  writer  and  speaker,  —  but  the  pressure  of 
purpose,  the  friction  of  power  and  velocity,  the  sense 
of  overcoming  the  demons  and  mud-gods  and  frozen 
torpidity,  he  so  often  refers  to.  Hence  no  writing 
extant  is  so  little  like  writing,  and  gives  so  vividly 
the  sense  of  something  done.  He  may  praise  silence 
and  glorify  work.  The  unspeakable  is  ever  present . 
with  him ;  it  is  the  core  of  every  sentence  ;  the  in- 
articulate is  round  about  him;  a  solitude  like  that 
of  space  encompasseth  him.  His  books  are  not  easy 
reading ;  they  are  a  kind  of  wrestling  to  most  per- 
sons. His  style  is  like  a  road  made  of  rocks  :  when 
it  is  good,  there  is  nothing  like  it;  and  when  it  is 
bad,  there  is  nothing  like  it ! 

In  "  Past  and  Present,"  Carlyle  has  unconsciously 
painted  his  own  life  and  character  in  truer  colors  than 
has  any  one  else :  "  Not  a  May-game  is  this  man's 
life,  but  a  battle  and  a  march,  a  warfare  with  prin- 
cipalities and  powers;  no  idle  promenade  through 
fragrant  orange  groves  and  green,  flowery  spaces, 
waited  on  by  the  choral  Muses  and  the  rosy  Hours  : 
it  is  a  stern  pilgrimage  through  burning,  sandy  soli- 
tudes, through  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice.  He  walks 
among  men  ;  loves  men  with  inexpressible  soft  pity, 
as  they  cannot  love  him  ;  but  his  soul  dwells  in  soli- 
tude, in  the  uttermost  parts  of  Creation.  In  green 
oases  by  the  palm-tree  wells,  he  rests  a  space ;  but 
anon  he  has  to  journey  forward,  escorted  by  the  Ter- 
rors and  the  Splendors,  the  Archdemons  and  Arch- 


82  IN  CARLYLE'S  COUNTRY. 

angels.  All  heaven,  all  pandemonium,  are  his  es- 
cort." Part  of  the  world  will  doubtless  persist  in 
thinking  that  pandemonium  furnished  his  chief  coun- 
sel and  guide ;  but  there  are  enough  who  think  oth- 
erwise, and  their  numbers  are  bound  to  increase  in 
the  future. 


A  HUNT  FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


A  HUNT  FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

WHILE  I  lingered  away  the  latter  half  of  May  in 
Scotland,  and  the  first  half  of  June  in  northern  Eng- 
land, and  finally  in  London,  intent  on  seeing  the  land 
leisurely  and  as  the  mood  suited,  the  thought  never 
occurred  to  me  that  I  was  in  danger  of  missing  one 
of  the  chief  pleasures  I  had  promised  myself  in  cross- 
ing the  Atlantic,  namely,  the  hearing  of  the  song  of 
the  nightingale.  Hence,  when  on  the  17th  of  June 
I  found  myself  down  among  the  copses  near  Hazle- 
mere,  on  the  borders  of  Surrey  and  Sussex,  and  was 
told  by  the  old  farmer,  to  whose  house  I  had  been 
recommended  by  friends  in  London,  that  I  was  too 
late,  that  the  season  of  the  nightingale  was  over,  I 
was  a  good  deal  disturbed. 

"I  think  she  be  done  singing  now,  sir;  I  ain't 
heered  her  in  some  time,  sir,"  said  my  farmer,  as  we 
sat  down  to  get  acquainted  over  a  mug  of  the  hardest 
cider  I  ever  attempted  to  drink. 

"  Too  late !  "  I  said  in  deep  chagrin,  "  and  I  might 
have  been  here  weeks  ago." 

"  Yeas,  sir,  she  be  done  now ;  May  is  the  time  to 
hear  her.  The  cuckoo  is  done  too,  sir ;  and  you 
don't  hear  the  nightingale  after  the  cuckoo  is  gone, 
sir." 


86  A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

(The  country  people  in  this  part  of  England  sir 
one  at  the  end  of  every  sentence,  and  talk  with  an 
indescribable  drawl.) 

But  I  had  heard  a  cuckoo  that  very  afternoon,  and 
I  took  heart  from  the  fact.  I  afterward  learned  that 
the  country  people  everywhere  associate  these  two 
birds  in  this  way ;  you  will  not  hear  the  one  after 
the  other  has  ceased.  But  I  heard  the  cuckoo  almost 
daily  till  the  middle  of  July.  Matthew  Arnold  re- 
flects the  popular  opinion,  when  in  one  of  his  poems 
("  Thyrsis ")  he  makes  the  cuckoo  say  in  early 
June,  — 

"  The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I !  " 
The  explanation  is  to  be  found  in  Shakespeare,  who 


;  the  cuckoo  is  in  June 


Heard,  not  regarded," 

as  the  bird  really  does  not  go  till  August.  I  got  out 
my  Gilbert  White,  as  I  should  have  done  at  an 
earlier  day,  and  was  still  more  disturbed  to  find  that 
he  limited  the  singing  of  the  nightingale  to  June 
15th.  But  seasons  differ,  I  thought,  and  it  can't  be 
possible  that  any  class  of  feathered  songsters  all  stop 
on  a  given  day.  There  is  a  tradition  that  when 
George  I.  died  the  nightingales  all  ceased  singing  for 
the  year  out  of  grief  at  the  sad  event ;  but  his  maj- 
esty did  not  die  till  June  21st.  This  would  give  me  a 
margin  of  several  days.  Then,  when  I  looked  further 
in  White,  and  found  that  he  says  the  chaffinch  ceases 
to  sing  the  beginning  of  June,  I  took  more  courage, 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  87 

for  I  had  that  day  heard  the  chaffinch  also.  But  it  was 
evident  I  had  no  time  to  lose  ;  I  was  just  on  the  di- 
viding line,  and  any  day  might  witness  the  cessation 
of  the  last  songster.  For  it  seems  that  the  nightingale 
ceases  singing  the  moment  her  brood  is  hatched. 
After  that  event,  you  hear  only  a  harsh  chiding  or 
anxious  note.  Hence  the  poets,  who  attribute  her 
melancholy  strains  to  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  her  young, 
are  entirely  at  fault.  Virgil,  portraying  the  grief  of 
Orpheus  after  the  loss  of  Eurydice,  says  :  — 

"  So  Philomela,  'mid  the  poplar  shade, 
Bemoans  her  captive  brood  ;  the  cruel  hind 
Saw  them  un plumed,  and  took  them  ;  but  all  night 
Grieves  she,  and,  sitting  on  a  bough,  runs  o'er 
Her  wretched  tale,  and  fills  the  woods  with  woe." 

But  she  probably  does  nothing  of  the  kind.  The 
song  of  a  bird  is  not  a  reminiscence,  but  an  anticipa- 
tion, and  expresses  happiness  or  joy  only,  except  in 
those  cases  where  the  male  bird,  having  lost  its  mate, 
sings  for  a  few  days  as  if  to  call  the  lost  one  back. 
When  the  male  renews  his  powers  of  song,  after  the 
young  brood  has  been  destroyed,  or  after  it  has  flown 
away,  it  is  a  sign  that  a  new  brood  is  contemplated. 
The  song  is,  as  it  were,  the  magic  note  that  calls  the 
brood  forth.  At  least,  this  is  the  habit  with  other 
song-birds,  and  I  have  no  doubt  the  same  holds  good 
with  the  nightingale.  Destroy  the  nest  or  brood  of 
the  wood-thrush,  and  if  the  season  is  not  too  far  ad- 
vanced, after  a  week  or  ten  days  of  silence,  during 
which  the  parent  birds  by  their  manner,  seem  to  be- 


88  A  HUNT   FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

moan  their  loss  and  to  take  counsel  together,  the 
male  breaks  forth  with  a  new  song,  and  the  female 
begins  to  construct  a  new  nest.  The  poets,  therefore, 
in  depicting  the  bird  on  such  occasions  as  bewailing 
the  lost  brood,  are  wide  of  the  mark  ;  he  is  invoking 
and  celebrating  a  new  brood. 

As  it  was  mid-afternoon,  I  could  only  compose 
myself  till  night-fall.  I  accompanied  the  farmer  to 
the  hay-field  and  saw  the  working  of  his  mowing- 
machine,  a  rare  implement  in  England,  as  most  of 
the  grass  is  still  cut  by  hand,  and  raked  by  hand 
also.  The  disturbed  sky-larks  were  hovering  above 
the  falling  grass,  full  of  anxiety  for  their  nests,  as 
one  may  note  the  bobolinks  on  like  occasions  at 
home.  The  weather  is  so  uncertain  in  England,  and 
it  is  so  impossible  to  predict  its  complexion,  not  only 
from  day  to  day  but  from  hour  to  hour,  that  the 
farmers  appear  to  consider  it  a  suitable  time  to  cut 
grass  when  it  is  not  actually  raining.  They  slash 
away  without  reference  to  the  aspects  of  the  sky, 
and  when  the  field  is  down  trust  to  luck  to  be  able 
to  cure  the  hay,  or  get  it  ready  to  "  carry  "  between 
the  showers.  The  clouds  were  lowering  and  the  air 
was  damp  now,  and  it  was  Saturday  afternoon  ;  but 
the  farmer  said  they  would  never  get  their  hay  if 
they  minded  such  things.  The  farm  had  seen  better 
days ;  so  had  the  farmer ;  both  were  slightly  down 
at  the  heel.  Too  high  rent  and  too  much  hard  cider 
were  working  their  effects  upon  both.  The  farm 
had  been  in  the  family  many  generations,  but  it  was 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  89 

DOW  about  to  be  sold  and  to  pass  into  other  hands, 
and  my  host  said  he  was  glad  of  it.  There  was  no 
money  in  farming  any  more  ;  no  money  in  anything. 
I  asked  him  what  were  the  main  sources  of  profit  on 
such  a  farm. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  sometimes  the  wheat  pops  up, 
and  the  barley  drops  in,  and  the  pigs  come  on,  and  we 
picks  up  a  little  money,  sir,  but  not  much,  sir.  Pigs 
is  doing  well  naow.  But  they  brings  so  much  wheat 
from  Ameriky,  and  our  weather  is  so  bad  that  we 
can't  get  a  good  sample,  sir,  one  year  in  three,  that 
there  is  no  money  made  in  growing  wheat,  sir." 
And  the  "  wuts "  (oats)  were  not  much  better. 
"  Theys  as  would  buy  haint  got  no  money,  sir."  "  Up 
to  the  top  of  the  nip,"  for  top  of  the  hill,  was  one  of 
his  expressions.  Tennyson  had  a  summer  residence 
at  Blackdown,  not  far  off.  "  One  of  the  Queen's  poets, 
I  believe,  sir."  "  Yes,  I  often  see  him  riding  about, 
sir." 

After  an  hour  or  two  with  the  farmer,  I  walked 
out  to  take  a  survey  of  the  surrounding  country.  It 
was  quite  wild  and  irregular,  full  of  bushy  fields  and 
overgrown  hedge-rows,  and  looked  to  me  very  uight- 
ingaly.  I  followed  for  a  mile  or  two  a  road  that  led 
by  tangled  groves  and  woods  and  copses,  with  a  still 
meadow  trout-stream  in  the  gentle  valley  below.  I 
inquired  for  nightingales  of  every  boy  and  laboring 
man  I  met  or  saw.  I  got  but  little  encouragement ; 
it  was  too  late.  "  She  be  about  done  singing  now, 
sir."  A  boy  whom  I  met  in  a  foot-path  that  ran 


90  A  HUNT  FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE, 

through  a  pasture  beside  a  copse  said,  after  reflecting 
a  moment,  that  he  had  heard  one  in  that  very  copse 
two  mornings  before  —  "about  seven  o'clock,  sir, 
while  I  was  on  my  way  to  my  work,  sir."  Then  I 
would  try  my  luck  in  said  copse  and  in  the  adjoining 
thickets  that  night  and  the  next  morning.  The  rail- 
way ran  near,  but  perhaps  that  might  serve  to  keep 
the  birds  awake.  These  copses  in  this  part  of  Eng- 
land look  strange  enough  to  American  eyes.  What 
thriftless  farming !  the  first  thought  is  \  behold  the 
fields  grown  up  to  bushes,  as  if  the  land  had  relapsed 
to  a  state  of  nature  again.  Adjoining  meadows  and 
grain-fields  one  may  see  an  inclosure  of  many  acres 
covered  with  a  thick  growth  of  oak  and  chestnut 
sprouts,  six  or  eight  or  twelve  feet  high.  These  are 
the  copses  one  has  so  often  heard  about,  and  they 
are  a  valuable  and  productive  part  of  the  farm.  They 
are  planted  and  preserved  as  carefully  as  we  plant 
an  orchard  or  a  vineyard.  Once  in  so  many  years, 
perhaps  five  or  six,  the  copse  is  cut  and  every  twig 
is  saved ;  it  is  a  woodland  harvest  that  in  our  own 
country  is  gathered  in  the  forest  itself.  The  larger 
poles  are  tied  up  in  bundles  and  sold  for  hoop-poles  ; 
the  fine  branches  and  shoots  are  made  into  brooms  in 
the  neighboring  cottages  and  hamlets,  or  used  as  ma- 
terial for  thatching.  The  refuse  is  used  as  wood. 

About  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  I  sallied  forth, 
taking  my  way  over  the  ground  I  had  explored  a  few 
hours  before.  The  gloaming,  which  at  this  season 
lasts  till  after  ten  o'clock,  dragged  its  slow  length 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  91 

along.  Nine  o'clock  came,  and,  though  my  ear  was 
attuned,  the  songster  was  tardy.  I  hovered  about 
the  copses  and  hedge-rows  like  one  meditating  some 
dark  deed  ;  I  lingered  in  a  grove  and  about  an  over- 
grown garden  and  a  neglected  orchard ;  I  sat  on 
stiles  and  leaned  on  wickets,  mentally  speeding  the 
darkness  that  should  bring  my  singer  out.  The 
weather  was  damp  and  chilly,  and  the  tryst  grew 
tiresome.  I  had  brought  a  rubber  water-proof,  but 
not  an  overcoat.  Lining  the  back  of  the  rubber  with 
a  newspaper,  I  wrapped  it  about  me  and  sat  down, 
determined  to  lay  siege  to  my  bird.  A  foot-path  that 
ran  along  the  fields  and  bushes  on  the  other  side  of 
the  little  valley  showed  every  few  minutes  a  woman 
or  girl,  or  boy  or  laborer,  passing  along  it.  A  path 
near  me  also  had  its  frequent  figures  moving  along 
in  the  dusk.  In  this  country  people  travel  in  foot- 
paths as  much  as  in  highways.  The  paths  give  a 
private,  human  touch  to  the  landscape  that  the  roads 
do  not.  They  are  sacred  to  the  human  foot.  They 
have  the  sentiment  of  domesticity,  and  suggest  the 
way  to  cottage  doors  and  to  simple,  primitive  times. 

Presently  a  man  with  a  fishing-rod,  and  capped, 
coated,  and  booted  for  the  work,  came  through  the 
meadow,  and  began  casting  for  trout  in  the  stream 
below  me.  How  he  gave  himself  to  the  work !  how 
oblivious  he  was  of  everything  but  the  one  matter  in 
hand  !  I  doubt  if  he  was  conscious  of  the  train  that 
passed  within  a  few  rods  of  him.  Your  born  angler 
is  like  a  hound  that  scents  no  game  but  that  which  he 


92  A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

is  in  pursuit  of.  Every  sense  and  faculty  were  con- 
centrated upon  that  hovering  fly.  This  man  wooed 
the  stream,  quivering  with  pleasure  and  expectation. 
Every  foot  of  it  he  tickled  with  his  decoy.  His  close 
was  evidently  a  short  one,  and  he  made  the  most  of 
it.  He  lingered  over  every  cast,  and  repeated  it  again 
and  again.  An  American  angler  would  have  been  out 
of  sight  down  stream  long  ago.  But  this  fisherman 
was  not  going  to  bolt  his  preserve ;  his  line  should 
taste  every  drop  of  it.  His  eager,  stealthy  move- 
ments denoted  his  enjoyment  and  his  absorption. 
When  a  trout  was  caught,  it  was  quickly  rapped  on 
the  head  and  slipped  into  his  basket,  as  if  in  punish- 
ment for  its  tardiness  in  jumping.  "  Be  quicker  next 
time,  will  you."  (British  trout,  by  the  way,  are  not 
so  beautiful  as  our  own.  They  have  more  of  a 
domesticated  look.  They  are  less  brilliantly  marked, 
and  have  much  coarser  scales.  There  is  no  gold  or 
vermilion  in  their  coloring.) 

Presently  there  arose  from  a  bushy  corner  of  a 
near  field  a  low,  peculiar  purring  or  humming  sound, 
that  sent  a  thrill  through  me ;  of  course,  I  thought 
my  bird  was  inflating  her  throat.  Then  the  sound 
increased,  and  was  answered  or  repeated  in  various 
other  directions.  It  had  a  curious  ventriloquial 
effect.  I  presently  knew  it  to  be  the  night-jar  or 
goat-sucker,  a  bird  that  answers  to  our  whip-poor- 
will.  Very  soon  the  sound  seemed  to  be  floating 
all  about  me  —  Jr-r-r-r-r  or  Chr-r-r-r-r,  slightly  sug- 
gesting the  call  of  our  toads,  but  more  vague  as  to 


A   HUNT   FOR   THE   NIGHTINGALE.  93 

direction.  Then  as  it  grew  darker  the  birds  ceased ; 
the  fisherman  reeled  up  and  left.  No  sound  was  now 
heard  —  not  even  the  voice  of  a  solitary  frog  any- 
where. I  never  heard  a  frog  in  England.  About 
eleven  o'clock  I  moved  down  by  a  wood  and  stood 
for  an  hour  on  a  bridge  over  the  railroad.  No  voice 
of  bird  greeted  me  till  the  sedge-warbler  struck  up 
her  curious  nocturne  in  a  hedge  near  by.  It  was  a 
singular  medley  of  notes,  hurried  chirps,  trills,  calls, 
warbles,  snatched  from  the  songs  of  other  birds,  with 
a  half  -  chiding,  remonstrating  tone  or  air  running 
through  it  all.  As  there  was  no  other  sound  to  be 
heard,  and  as  the  darkness  was  complete,  it  had  the 
effect  of  a  very  private  and  whimsical  performance  — 
as  if  the  little  bird  had  secluded  herself  there,  and 
was  giving  vent  to  her  emotions  in  the  most  copious 
and  vehement  manner.  I  listened  till  after  mid- 
night, and  till  the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  the  viva- 
cious warbler  never  ceased  for  a  moment.  White 
says  that,  if  it  stops,  a  stone  tossed  into  the  bush 
near  it  will  set  it  going  again.  Its  voice  is  not 
musical ;  the  quality  of  it  is  like  that  of  the  loqua- 
cious English  house  sparrows  ;  but  its  song  or  med- 
ley is  so  persistently  animated,  and  in  such  contrast 
to  the  gloom  and  the  darkness,  that  the  effect  is 
decidedly  pleasing. 

This  and  the  night-jar  were  the  only  nightingales 
I  heard  that  night.  I  returned  home,  a  good  deal 
disappointed,  but  slept  upon  my  arms,  as  it  were, 
and  was  out  upon  the  chase  again  at  four  o'clock  in 


94  A  HUNT   FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

the  morning.  This  time  I  passed  down  a  laue  by  the 
neglected  garden  and  orchard,  where  I  was  told  the 
birds  had  sung  for  weeks  past  j  then  under  the  rail- 
road by  a  cluster  of  laborers'  cottages,  and  along  a 
road  with  many  copses  and  bushy  fence-corners  on 
either  hand,  for  two  miles,  but  I  heard  no  nightingales, 
A  boy  of  whom  I  inquired  seemed  half  frightened, 
and  went  into  the  house  without  answering. 

After  a  late  breakfast  I  sallied  out  again,  going 
farther  in  the  same  direction,  and  was  overtaken  by 
several  showers.  I  heard  many  and  frequent  bird- 
songs,  —  the  lark,  the  wren,  the  thrush,  tbe  black- 
bird, the  white-throat,  the  greenfinch,  and  the  hoarse, 
guttural  cooing  of  the  wood-pigeons,  but  not  the  note 
I  was  in  quest  of.  I  passed  up  a  road  that  was  a 
deep  trench  in  the  side  of  a  hill  overgrown  with  low 
beeches.  The  roots  of  the  trees  formed  a  net-work 
on  the  side  of  the  bank,  as  their  branches  did  above. 
In  a  frame-work  of  roots,  within  reach  of  my  hand,  I 
spied  a  wren's  nest,  a  round  hole  leading  to  the  in- 
terior of  a  large  mass  of  soft  green  moss,  a  structure 
displaying  the  taste  and  neatness  of  the  daintiest  of 
bird  architects,  and  the  depth  and  warmth  and  snug- 
ness  of  the  most  ingenious  mouse  habitation.  While 
lingering  here,  a  young  countryman  came  along  whom 
I  engaged  in  conversation.  No,  he  had  not  heard  the 
nightingale  for  a  few  days ;  but  the  previous  week  he 
had  been  in  camp  with  the  militia  near  Gnildford, 
and  while  on  picket  duty  had  heard  her  luarly  all 
night.  "  *  Don't  she  sing  splendid  to-nig  <t  ?  '  t^*e 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  95 

boys  would  say."  This  was  tantalizing;  Guildford 
was  within  easy  reach ;  but  the  previous  week  —  that 
could  not  be  reached.  However,  he  encouraged  me 
by  saying  he  did  not  think  they  were  done  singing 
yet,  as  he  had  often  heard  them  during  haying-time. 
I  inquired  for  the  black-cap,  but  saw  he  did  not 
know  this  bird,  and  thought  I  referred  to  a  species  of 
tomtit,  which  also  has  a  black  cap.  The  wood- lark 
I  was  also  on  the  lookout  for,  but  he  did  not  know 
this  bird  either,  and  during  my  various  rambles  in 
England  I  found  but  one  person  who  did.  In  Scot- 
land it  was  confounded  with  the  titlark  or  pipit. 

I  next  met  a  man  and  boy,  a  villager  with  a  stove- 
pipe hat  on,  —  and,  as  it  turned  out,  a  man  of  many 
trades,  tailor,  barber,  painter,  etc.,  —  from  Hazlemere. 
The  absorbing  inquiry  was  put  to  him  also.  No,  not 
that  day,  but  a  few  mornings  before  he  had.  But 
he  could  easily  call  one  out,  if  there  were  any  about, 
as  he  could  imitate  them.  Plucking  a  spear  of  grass, 
he  adjusted  it  behind  his  teeth  and  startled  me  with 
the  shrill,  rapid  notes  he  poured  forth.  I  at  once 
recognized  its  resemblance  to  the  descriptions  I  had 
read  of  the  opening  part  of  the  nightingale  song,  — 
what  is  called  the  "  challenge."  The  boy  said,  and 
he  himself  averred,  that  it  was  an  exact  imitation. 
The  chew,  chew,  chew,  and  some  other  parts,  were 
very  bird-like,  and  I  had  no  doubt  were  correct.  I 
was  astonished  at  the  strong,  piercing  quality  of  the 
strain.  It  echoed  in  the  woods  and  copses  about, 
but,  though  oft  repeated,  brought  forth  no  response. 


96  A  HUNT  FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

With  this  man  I  made  an  engagement  to  take  a  walk 
that  evening  at  eight  o'clock  along  a  certain  route 
where  he  had  heard  plenty  of  nightingales  but  a  few 
days  before.  He  was  confident  he  could  call  them 
out ;  so  was  I. 

In  the  afternoon,  which  had  gleams  of  warm  sun- 
shine, I  made  another  excursion,  less  in  hopes  of 
hearing  my  bird  than  of  finding  some  one  who  could 
direct  me  to  the  right  spot.  Once  I  thought  the 
game  was  very  near.  I  met  a  boy  who  told  me  he 
had  heard  a  nightingale  only  fifteen  minutes  before, 
"on  Polecat  Hill,  sir,  just  this  side  the  Devil's 
Punch-bowl,  sir ! "  I  had  heard  of  his  majesty's 
punch-bowl  before,  and  of  the  gibbets  near  it  where 
three  murderers  were  executed  nearly  a  hundred 
years  ago,  but  Polecat  Hill  was  a  new  name  to  me. 
The  combination  did  not  seem  a  likely  place  for 
nightingales,  but  I  walked  rapidly  thitherward;  I 
heard  several  warblers,  but  not  Philomel,  and  was 
forced  to  conclude  that  probably  I  had  crossed  the 
sea  to  miss  my  bird  by  just  fifteen  minutes.  I  met 
many  other  boys  (is  there  any  country  where  boys 
do  not  prowl  about  in  small  bands  of  a  Sunday  ?)  and 
advertised  the  object  of  my  search  freely  among 
them,  offering  a  reward  that  made  their  eyes  glisten 
for  the  bird  in  song ;  but  nothing  ever  came  of  it. 
In  my  desperation,  I  even  presented  a  letter  I  had 
brought  to  the  village  squire,  just  as,  in  company 
with  his  wife,  he  was  about  to  leave  his  door  for 
church.  He  turned  back,  and,  hearing  my  quest, 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  97 

volunteered  to  take  me  on  a  long  walk  through  the 
wet  grass  and  bushes  of  his  fields  and  copses,  where 
he  knew  the  birds  were  wont  to  sing.  Too  "  late," 
he  said,  and  so  it  did  appear.  He  showed  me  a  fine 
old  edition  of  White's  <k  Selborne,"  with  notes  by 
some  editor  whose  name  I  have  forgotten.  This 
editor  had  extended  White's  date  of  June  15th  to 
July  1st,  as  the  time  to  which  the  nightingale  con- 
tinues in  song,  and  I  felt  like  thanking  him  for  it,  as 
it  gave  me  renewed  hope.  The  squire  thought  there 
was  a  chance  yet ;  and  in  case  my  man  with  the 
spear  of  grass  behind  his  teeth  failed  me,  he  gave  me 
a  card  to  an  old  naturalist  and  taxidermist  at  God- 
aiming,  a  town  nine  miles  above,  who,  he  felt  sure, 
could  put  me  on  the  right  track  if  anybody  could. 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  sun  yet  some  distance  above 
the  horizon,  I  was  at  the  door  of  the  barber  in  Hazle- 
mere.  He  led  the  way  along  one  of  those  delightful 
foot-paths  with  which  this  country  is  threaded,  ex- 
tending to  a  neighboring  village  several  miles  distant. 
It  left  the  street  at  Hazlemere,  cutting  through  the 
houses  diagonally,  as  if  the  brick  walls  had  made 
way  for  it,  passed  between  gardens,  through  wickets, 
over  stiles,  across  the  highway  and  railroad,  through 
cultivated  fields  and  a  gentleman's  park,  and  on  to- 
ward its  destination,  —  a  broad,  well-kept  path,  that 
seemed  to  have  the  same  inevitable  right  of  way  as  a 
brook.  I  was  told  that  it  was  repaired  and  looked 
after  the  same  as  the  highway.  Indeed,  it  was  a 
public  way,  public  to  pedestrians  only,  and  no  man 
7 


98  A  HUNT  FOB  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

could  stop  or  turn  it  aside.  We  followed  it  along 
the  side  of  a  steep  hill,  with  copses  and  groves 
sweeping  down  into  the  valley  below  us.  It  was  as 
wild  and  picturesque  a  spot  as  I  had  seen  in  Eng- 
land. The  foxglove  pierced  the  lower  foliage  and 
wild  growths  everywhere  with  its  tall  spires  of  purple 
flowers ;  the  wild  honeysuckle,  with  a  ranker  and 
coarser  fragrance  than  our  cultivated  species,  was 
just  opening  along  the  hedges.  We  paused  here, 
and  my  guide  blew  his  shrill  call ;  he  blew  it  again 
and  again.  How  it  awoke  the  echoes  and  how  it 
awoke  all  the  other  songsters !  The  valley  below 
us  and  the  slope  beyond,  which  before  were  silent, 
were  soon  musical.  The  chaffinch,  the  robin,  the 
blackbird,  the  thrush  —  the  last  the  loudest  and 
most  copious  —  seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  and 
with  the  loud  whistler  above  them.  But  we  listened 
in  vain  for  the  nightingale's  note.  Twice  my  guide 
struck  an  attitude  and  said,  impressively,  "  There ! 
I  believe  I  'erd  *er."  But  we  were  obliged  to  give  it 
up.  A  shower  came  on,  and  after  it  had  passed  we 
moved  to  another  part  of  the  landscape  and  repeated 
our  call,  but  got  no  response,  and  as  darkness  set  in 
we  returned  to  the  village. 

The  situation  began  to  look  serious.  I  knew  there 
was  a  nightingale  somewhere  whose  brood  had  been 
delayed  from  some  cause  or  other,  and  who  was 
therefore  still  in  song,  but  I  could  not  get  a  clew  to 
the  spot.  I  renewed  the  search  late  that  night,  and 
again  the  next  morning ;  I  inquired  of  every  man  and 
boy  I  saw. 


A  HUNT   FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE.  99 

"  I  met  many  travelers, 

Who  the  road  had  surely  kept; 
They  saw  not  my  fine  revelers,  — 

These  had  crossed  them  while  they  slept; 
Some  had  heard  their  fair  report, 
In  the  country  or  the  court." 

I  soon  learned  to  distrust  young  fellows  and  their 
girls  who  had  heard  nightingales  in  the  gloaming.  I 
knew  one's  ears  could  not  always  be  depended  upon 
on  such  occasions,  nor  his  eyes  either.  Larks  are 
seen  in  buntings,  and  a  wren's  song  entrances  like 
Philomel's.  A  young  couple  of  whom  I  inquired  in 
the  train,  on  my  way  to  Godalming,  said  Yes,  they 
had  heard  nightingales  just  a  few  moments  before  on 
their  way  to  the  station,  and  described  the  spot,  so  I 
could  find  it  if  I  returned  that  way.  They  left  the 
train  at  the  same  point  I  did,  and  walked  up  the 
street  in  advance  of  me.  I  had  lost  sight  of  them  till 
they  beckoned  to  me  from  the  corner  of  the  street, 
near  the  church,  where  the  prospect  opens  with  a  view 
of  a  near  meadow  and  a  stream  shaded  by  pollard 
willows.  "  We  heard  one  now,  just  there,"  they  said, 
as  I  came  up.  They  passed  on,  and  I  bent  my  ear 
eagerly  in  the  direction.  Then  I  walked  farther  on, 
following  one  of  those  inevitable  foot-paths  to  where 
it  cuts  diagonally  through  the  cemetery  behind  the 
old  church,  but  I  heard  nothing  save  a  few  notes  of 
the  thrush.  My  ear  was  too  critical  and  exacting. 
Then  I  sought  out  the  old  naturalist  and  taxidermist 
to  whom  I  had  a  card  from  the  squire.  He  was  a 
short,  stout  man,  racy  both  in  look  and  speech,  and 


100  A  HUNT  FOB   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

kindly.  He  had  a  fine  collection  of  birds  and  ani« 
mals,  in  which  he  took  great  pride.  He  pointed  out 
the  wood-lark  and  the  blackcap  to  me,  and  told  me 
where  he  had  seen  and  heard  them.  He  said  I  was 
too  late  for  the  nightingale,  though  I  might  possibly 
find  one  yet  in  song.  But  he  said  she  grew  hoarse 
late  in  the  season,  and  did  not  sing  as  a  few  weeks 
earlier.  He  thought  our  cardinal  grosbeak,  which 
he  called  the  Virginia  nightingale,  as  fine  a  whistler 
as  the  nightingale  herself.  He  could  not  go  with  me 
that  day,  but  he  would  send  his  boy.  Summoning 
the  lad,  he  gave  him  minute  directions  where  to  take 
me  —  over  by  Easing,  around  by  Shackerford  church, 
etc.,  a  circuit  of  four  or  five  miles.  Leaving  the  pic- 
turesque old  town,  we  took  a  road  over  a  broad, 
gentle  hill,  lined  with  great  trees,  beeches,  elms, 
oaks,  with  rich  cultivated  fields  beyond.  The  air 
of  peaceful  and  prosperous  human  occupancy  which 
everywhere  pervades  this  land  seemed  especially  pro- 
nounced through  all  this  section.  The  sentiment  of 
parks  and  lawns,  easy,  large,  basking,  indifferent  of 
admiration,  self-sufficing,  and  full,  everywhere  pre- 
vailed. The  road  was  like  the  most  perfect  private 
carriage-way.  Homeliness,  in  its  true  sense,  is  a  word 
that  applies  to  nearly  all  English  country  scenes ; 
homelike,  redolent  of  affectionate  care  and  toil,  satu- 
rated  with  rural  and  domestic  contentment ;  beauty 
without  pride,  order  without  stiffness,  age  without  de- 
cay. This  people  love  the  country,  because  it  would 
seem  as  if  the  country  must  first  have  loved  them. 


A  HUNT  FOB  THE  NIGHTINGALE.  101 

In  a  field  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a  new  species  of 
clover,  much  grown  in  parts  of  England  as  green  fod- 
der for  horses.  The  farmers  call  it  trefolium,  proba- 
bly trefolium  incarnatum.  The  head  is  two  or  three 
inches  long,  and  as  red  as  blood.  A  field  of  it  under 
the  sunlight  presents  a  most  brilliant  appearance.  As 
we  walked  along,  I  got  also  my  first  view '  of  the 
British  blue-jay,  —  a  slightly  larger  bird  than  ours, 
with  a  hoarser  voice  and  much  duller  plumage.  Blue, 
the  tint  of  the  sky,  is  not  so  common,  and  is  not 
found  in  any  such  perfection  among  the  British  birds 
as  among  the  American.  My  boy  companion  was 
worthy  of  observation  also.  He  was  a  curious  speci- 
men, ready  and  officious,  but,  as  one  soon  found  out, 
full  of  duplicity.  I  questioned  him  about  himself. 
"  I  helps  he,  sir ;  sometimes  I  shows  people  about, 
and  sometimes  I  does  errands.  I  gets  three  a  week, 
sir,  and  lunch  and  tea.  I  lives  with  my  grandmother, 
but  I  calls  her  mother,  sir.  The  master  and  the 
rector  they  gives  me  a  character,  says  I  am  a  good, 
honest  boy,  and  that  it  is  well  I  went  to  school  in  my 
youth.  I  am  ten,  sir.  Last  year  I  had  the  measles, 
sir,  and  I  thought  I  should  die ;  but  I  got  hold  of  a 
bottle  of  medicine,  and  it  tasted  like  honey,  and 
I  takes  the  whole  of  it,  and  it  made  me  well,  sir. 
I  never  lies,  sir.  It  is  good  to  tell  the  truth."  And 
yet  he  would  slide  off  into  a  lie  as  if  the  track  in 
that  direction  was  always  greased.  Indeed,  there 
was  a  kind  of  fluent,  unctuous,  obsequious  effrontery 
in  all  he  said  and  did.  As  the  day  was  warm  for 


102  A  HUNT  FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

that  climate,  he  soon  grew  tired  of  the  chase.  At 
one  point  we  skirted  the  grounds  of  a  large  house,  as 
thickly  planted  with  trees  and  shrubs  as  a  forest ; 
many  birds  were  singing  there,  and  for  a  moment 
my  guide  made  me  believe  that  among  them  he 
recognized  the  notes  of  the  nightingale.  Failing  in 
this,  he  coolly  assured  me  that  the  swallow  that 
skimmed  along  the  road  in  front  of  us  was  the  night- 
ingale !  We  presently  left  the  highway  and  took  a 
foot-path.  It  led  along  the  margin  of  a  large  plowed 
field,  shut  in  by  rows  of  noble  trees,  the  soil  of  which 
looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  garden  of  untold 
generations.  Then  the  path  led  through  a  wicket, 
and  down  the  side  of  a  wooded  hill  to  a  large  stream 
and  to  the  hamlet  of  Easing.  A  boy  fishing  said 
indifferently  that  he  had  heard  nightingales  there 
that  morning.  He  had  caught  a  little  fish  which  he 
said  was  a  gudgeon.  "  Yes,'*  said  my  companion  in 
response  to  a  remark  of  mine,  "  they 's  little  ;  but  you 
can  eat  they  if  they  is  little."  Then  we  went  to- 
ward Shackerford  church.  The  road,  like  most 
roads  in  the  south  of  England,  was  a  deep  trench. 
The  banks  on  either  side  rose  fifteen  feet,  covered 
with  ivy,  moss,  wild  flowers,  and  the  roots  of  trees. 
England's  best  defense  against  an  invading  foe  is  her 
sunken  roads.  Whole  armies  might  be  ambushed 
in  these  trenches,  while  an  enemy  moving  across  the 
open  plain  would  very  often  find  himself  plunging 
headlong  into  these  hidden  pitfalls.  Indeed,  between 
the  subterranean  character  of  the  roads  in  some 


A  HUNT   FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE.  103 

places  and  the  high-walled  or  high-hedged  character 
of  it  in  others,  the  pedestrian  about  England  is  shut 
out  from  much  he  would  like  to  see.  I  used  to  envy 
the  bicyclists,  perched  high  upon  their  rolling  stilts. 
But  the  foot-paths  escape  the  barriers,  and  one  need 
walk  nowhere  else  if  he  choose. 

Around  Shackerford  church  are  copses,  and  large 
pine  and  fir  woods.  The  place  was  full  of  birds. 
My  guide  threw  a  stone  at  a  small  bird  which  he 
declared  was  a  nightingale  ;  and  though  the  missile 
did  not  come  within  three  yards  of  it,  yet  he  said  he 
had  hit  it,  and  pretended  to  search  for  it  on  the 
ground.  He  must  needs  invent  an  opportunity  for 
lying.  I  told  him  here  I  had  no  further  use  for  him, 
and  he  turned  cheerfully  back,  with  my  shilling  in 
his  pocket.  I  spent  the  afternoon  about  the  woods 
and  copses  near  Shackerford.  The  day  was  bright 
and  the  air  balmy.  I  heard  the  cuckoo  call,  and 
the  chaffinch  sing,  both  of  which  I  considered  good 
omens.  The  little  chiffchaff  was  chiffchaffing  in  the 
pine  woods.  The  white-throat,  with  his  quick,  em- 
phatic Chew-che-rick  or  Che-rick-a-rew,  flitted  and 
ducked  and  hid  among  the  low  bushes  by  the  road- 
side. A  girl  told  me  she  had  heard  the  nightingale 
yesterday  on  her  way  to  Sunday-school,  and  pointed 
out  the  spot.  It  was  in  some  bushes  near  a  house.  I 
hovered  about  this  place  till  I  was  afraid  the  woman, 
who  saw  me  from  the  window,  would  think  I  had 
some  designs  upon  her  premises.  But  I  managed  to 
look  very  indifferent  or  abstracted  when  I  passed. 


104  A  HUNT  FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

I  am  quite  sure  I  heard  the  chiding,  guttural' note  of 
the  bird  I  was  after.  Doubtless  her  brood  had  come 
out  that  very  day.  Another  girl  had  heard  a  night- 
ingale on  her  way  to  school  that  morning  and  directed 
me  to  the  road ;  still  another  pointed  out  to  me  the 
white-throat  and  said  that  was  my  bird.  This  last 
was  a  rude  shock  to  my  faith  in  the  ornithology  of 
school-girls.  Finally,  I  found  a  laborer  breaking 
stone  by  the  roadside,  —  a  serious,  honest-faced  man, 
who  said  he  had  heard  my  bird  that  morning  on  his 
way  to  work ;  he  heard  her  every  morning,  and 
nearly  every  night  too.  He  heard  her  last  night 
after  the  shower  (just  at  the  hour  when  my  barber 
and  I  were  trying  to  awaken  her  near  Hazlemere), 
and  she  sang  as  finely  as  ever  she  did.  This  was  a 
great  lift.  I  felt  that  I  could  trust  this  man.  He 
said  that  after  his  day's  work  was  done,  that  is,  at 
five  o'clock,  if  I  chose  to  accompany  him  on  his  way 
home,  he  would  show  me  where  he  had  heard  the 
bird.  This  I  gladly  agreed  to ;  and  remembering 
that  I  had  had  no  dinner,  I  sought  out  the  inn  in  the 
village  and  asked  for  something  to  eat.  The  un- 
wonted request  so  startled  the  landlord  that  he  came 
out  from  behind  his  inclosed  bar,  and  confronted  me 
with  good-humored  curiosity.  These  back-country 
English  inns,  as  I  several  times  found  to  my  discom- 
fiture, are  only  drinking  places  for  the  accommoda- 
tion of  local  customers,  mainly  of  the  laboring  class. 
Instead  of  standing  conspicuously  on  some  street 
corner,  as  with  us,  they  usually  stand  on  some  by« 


A  HUNT  FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE.  105 

way,  or  some  little  paved  court  away  from  the  main 
thoroughfare.  I  could  have  plenty  of  beer,  said  the 
landlord,  but  he  had  not  a  mouthful  of  meat  in  the 
house.  I  urged  my  needs,  and  finally  got  some  rye 
bread  and  cheese.  With  this  and  a  glass  of  home- 
brewed beer  I  was  fairly  well  fortified.  At  the  ap- 
pointed time  I  met  the  cottager  and  went  with  him 
on  his  way  home.  We  walked  two  miles  or  more 
along  a  charming  road,  full  of  wooded  nooks  and 
arbor-like  vistas.  Why  do  English  trees  always  look 
so  sturdy,  and  exhibit  such  massive  repose,  so  unlike, 
in  this  latter  respect,  to  the  nervous  and  agitated  ex- 
pression of  most  of  our  own  foliage  ?  Probably  be- 
cause they  have  been  a  long  time  out  of  the  woods 
and  have  had  plenty  of  room  in  which  to  develop  in- 
dividual traits  and  peculiarities ;  then  in  a  deep  fer- 
tile soil,  and  a  climate  that  does  not  hurry  or  over- 
tax, they  grow  slow  and  last  long,  and  come  to  have 
the  picturesqueness  of  age  without  its  infirmities. 
The  oak,  the  elm,  the  beech,  all  have  more  striking 
profiles  than  in  our  country. 

Presently  my  companion  pointed  out  to  me  a  small 
wood  below  the  road  that  had  a  wide  fringe  of  bushes 
and  saplings  connecting  it  with  a  meadow,  amid  which 
stood  the  tree-embowered  house  of  a  city  man,  where 
he  had  heard  the  nightingale  in  the  morning;  and 
then,  further  along,  showed  me,  near  his  own  cottage, 
where  he  had  heard  one  the  evening  before.  It  was 
now  only  six  o'clock,  and  I  had  two  or  three  hours 
to  wait  before  I  could  reasonably  expect  to  hear  her. 


106  A  HUNT   FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

"  It  gets  to  be  into  the  hevening,"  said  my  new 
frieiid,  "  when  she  sings  the  most,  you  know."  I 
whiled  away  the  time  as  best  I  could.  If  I  had  been 
an  artist,  I  should  have  brought  away  a  sketch  of  a 
picturesque  old  cottage  near  by,  that  bore  the  date 
of  1688  on  its  wall.  I  was  obliged  to  keep  moving 
most  of  the  time  to  keep  warm.  Yet  the  "  nosee- 
*ems,"  or  midges,  annoyed  me,  in  a  temperature 
which  at  home  would  have  chilled  them  buzzless 
and  biteless.  Finally,  I  leapt  the  smooth  masonry 
of  the  stone  wall  and  ambushed  myself  amid  the  tall 
ferns  under  a  pine-tree,  where  the  nightingale  had 
been  heard  in  the  morning.  If  the  keeper  had  seen 
me,  he  would  probably  have  taken  me  for  a  poacher. 
I  sat  shivering  there  till  nine  o'clock,  listening  to  the 
cooing  of  the  wood-pigeons,  watching  the  motions  of 
a  jay  that,  I  suspect,  had  a  nest  near  by,  and  taking 
note  of  various  other  birds.  The  song-thrush  and 
the  robins  soon  made  such  a  musical  uproar  along  the 
borders  of  a  grove,  across  an  adjoining  field,  as  quite 
put  me  out.  It  might  veil  and  obscure  the  one  voice 
I  wanted  to  hear.  The  robin  continued  to  sing  quite 
into  the  darkness.  This  bird  is  related  to  the  night- 
ingale, and  looks  and  acts  like  it  at  a  little  distance  ; 
and  some  of  its  notes  are  remarkably  piercing  and 
musical.  When  my  patience  was  about  exhausted,  I 
was  startled  by  a  quick,  brilliant  call  or  whistle,  a 
few  rods  from  me,  that  at  once  recalled  my  barber 
with  his  blade  of  grass,  and  I  knew  my  long-sought 
bird  was  inflating  her  throat.  How  it  woke  me  up  J 


A  HUNT  FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  107 

It  had  the  quality  that  startles ;  it  pierced  the  gath- 
ering gloom  like  a  rocket.  Then  it  ceased.  Sus- 
pecting I  was  too  near  the  singer,  I  moved  away 
cautiously,  and  stood  in  a  lane  beside  the  wood, 
where  a  loping  hare  regarded  me  a  few  paces  away. 
Then  my  singer  struck  up  again,  but  I  could  see  did 
not  let  herself  out;  just  tuning  her  instrument,  I 
thought,  and  getting  ready  to  transfix  the  silence  and 
the  darkness.  A  little  later,  a  man  and  boy  came 
up  the  lane.  I  asked  them  if  that  was  the  nightingale 
singing ;  they  listened,  and  assured  me  it  was  none 
other.  "  Now  she 's  on,  sir ;  now  she 's  on.  Ah !  but 
she  don't  stick.  In  May,  sir,  they  makes  the  woods 
all  heccho  about  here.  Now  she 's  on  again  ;  that 's 
her,  sir  ;  now  she 's  off ;  she  won't  stick."  And  stick 
she  would  not.  I  could  hear  a  hoarse  wheezing  and 
clucking  sound  beneath  her  notes,  when  I  listened 
intently.  The  man  and  boy  moved  away.  I  stood 
mutely  invoking  all  the  gentle  divinities  to  spur  the 
bird  on.  Just  then  a  bird  like  our  hermit-thrush 
came  quickly  over  the  hedge  a  few  yards  below  me, 
swept  close  past  my  face,  and  back  into  the  thicket. 
I  had  been  caught  listening ;  the  offended  bird  had 
found  me  taking  notes  of  her  dry  and  worn-out  pipe 
there  behind  the  hedge,  and  the  concert  abruptly 
ended  ;  not  another  note ;  not  a  whisper.  I  waited  a 
long  time  and  then  moved  off ;  then  came  back,  im- 
plored the  outraged  bird  to  resume ;  then  rushed  off, 
and  slammed  the  door,  or  rather  the  gate,  indignantly 
behind  me.  I  paused  by  other  shrines,  but  not  a 


108  A  HUNT  FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

sound.  The  cottager  had  told  me  of  a  little  village 
three  miles  beyond,  where  there  were  three  inns,  and 
where  I  could  probably  get  lodgings  for  the  night. 
I  walked  rapidly  in  that  direction  ;  committed  my- 
self to  a  foot-path ;  lost  the  trail,  and  brought  up 
at  a  little  cottage  in  a  wide  expanse  of  field  or  com- 
mon, and  by  the  good  woman,  with  a  babe  in  her 
arms,  was  set  right  again.  I  soon  struck  the  highway 
by  the  bridge,  as  I  had  been  told,  and  a  few  paces 
brought  me  to  the  first  inn.  It  was  ten  o'clock,  and 
the  lights  were  just  about  to  be  put  out,  as  the  law 
or  custom  is  in  country  inns.  The  landlady  said  she 
could  not  give  me  a  bed,  she  had  only  one  spare 
room,  and  that  was  not  in  order,  and  she  should  not 
set  about  putting  it  in  shape  at  that  hour ;  and  she 
was  short  and  sharp  about  it,  too.  I  hastened  on  to 
the  next  one.  The  landlady  said  she  had  no  sheets, 
and  the  bed  was  damp  and  unfit  to  sleep  in.  I  pro- 
tested that  I  thought  an  inn  was  an  inn,  and  for  the 
accommodation  of  travelers.  But  she  referred  me  to 
the  next  house.  Here  were  more  people  and  more 
the  look  and  air  of  a  public  house.  But  the  wife 
(the  man  does  not  show  himself  on  such  occasions) 
said  her  daughter  had  just  got  married  and  come 
home,  and  she  had  much  company  and  could  not 
keep  me.  In  vain  I  urged  my  extremity  ;  there  was 
no  room.  Could  I  have  something  to  eat,  then? 
This  seemed  doubtful,  and  led  to  consultations  in  the 
kitchen  ;  but,  finally,  some  bread  and  cold  meat  were 
produced.  The  nearest  hotel  was  Godalming,  seven 


A     B  E     -«-«»,    jr^, 

miles  distant,  and  I  knew  all  the  inns  would  be  shut 
up  before  I  could  get  there.  So  I  munched  my  bread 
and  meat,  consoling  myself  with  the  thought  that 
perhaps  this  was  just  the  ill  wind  that  would  blow 
me  the  good  I  was  in  quest  of.  I  saw  no  alternative 
but  to  spend  a  night  under  the  trees  with  the  night- 
ingales ;  and  I  might  surprise  them  at  their  revels  in 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  Just  as  I  was  ready 
to  congratulate  myself  on  the  richness  of  my  experi- 
ence, the  landlady  came  in  and  said  there  was  a 
young  man  there  going  with  a  "  trap  "  to  Godalming, 
and  he  had  offered  to  take  me  in.  I  feared  I  should 
pass  for  an  escaped  lunatic  if  I  declined  the  offer ;  so 
I  reluctantly  assented,  and  we  were  presently  whirl- 
ing through  the  darkness,  along  a  smooth,  winding 
road,  toward  town.  The  young  man  was  a  drum- 
mer ;  was  from  Lincolnshire,  and  said  I  spoke  like  a 
Lincolnshire  man.  I  could  believe  it,  for  I  told  him 
he  talked  more  like  an  American  than  any  native  I 
had  met.  The  hotels  in  the  larger  towns  close  at 
eleven,  and  I  was  set  down  in  front  of  one  just  as 
the  clock  was  striking  that  hour.  I  asked  to  be  con- 
ducted to  a  room  at  once.  As  I  was  about  getting 
in  bed  there  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  a  waiter 
presented  me  my  bill  on  a  tray.  "Gentlemen  as 
have  no  luggage,  etc.,"  he  explained  ;  and  pretend  to 
be  looking  for  nightingales,  too  !  Three-and-sixpence  ; 
two  shillings  for  the  bed  and  one-and-six  for  service. 
I  was  out  at  five  in  the  morning,  before  any  one  in- 
side was  astir.  After  much  trying  of  bars  and  doors, 


110  A  HUNT   FOB   THE   NIGHTINGALE. 

I  made  my  exit  into  a  paved  court,  from  which  a 
covered  way  led  into  the  street.  A  man  opened  a 
window  and  directed  me  how  to  undo  the  great  door, 
and  forth  I  started,  still  hoping  to  catch  my  bird  at 
her  matins.  I  took  the  route  of  the  day  before.  On 
the  edge  of  the  beautiful  plowed  field,  looking  down 
through  the  trees  and  bushes  into  the  gleam  of  the 
river  twenty  rods  below,  I  was  arrested  by  the  note 
I  longed  to  hear.  It  came  up  from  near  the  water, 
and  made  my  ears  tingle.  I  folded  up  my  rubber 
coat  and  sat  down  upon  it,  saying,  Now  we  will  tako 
our  fill.  But  —  the  bird  ceased,  and,  tarry  though  I 
did  for  an  hour,  not  another  note  reached  me.  The 
prize  seemed  destined  to  elude  me  each  time  just  as 
I  thought  it  mine.  Still,  I  treasured  what  little  I 
had  heard. 

It  was  enough  to  convince  me  of  the  superior  qual- 
ity of  the  song,  and  make  me  more  desirous  than  ever 
to  hear  the  complete  strain.  I  continued  my  rambles, 
and  in  the  early  morning  once  more  hung  about  the 
Shackerford  copses  and  loitered  along  the  highways. 
Two  school-boys  pointed  out  a  tree  to  me  in  which 
they  had  heard  the  nightingale,  on  their  way  for 
milk,  two  hours  before.  But  I  could  only  repeat 
Emerson's  lines  :  — 

"  Right  good  will  my  sinews  strung, 
But  no  speed  of  mine  avails 
To  hunt  up  their  shining  trails." 

At  nine  o'clock  I  gave  over  the  pursuit  and  re« 
turned  to  Easing  in  quest  of  breakfast.  Bringing 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  Ill 

up  in  front  of  the  large  and  comfortable-looking  inn, 
I  found  the  mistress  of  the  house  with  her  daughter 
engaged  in  washing  windows.  Perched  upon  their 
step-ladders,  they  treated  my  request  for  breakfast 
very  coldly ;  in  fact,  finally  refused  to  listen  to  it  at 
all.  The  fires  were  out,  and  I  could  not  be  served. 
So  I  must  continue  my  walk  back  to  Godalmiug ; 
and  in  doing  so,  I  found  that  one  may  walk  three 
miles  on  indignation  quite  as  easily  as  upon  bread. 

In  the  afternoon  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  at 
Shotter  Mill,  and  made  ready  for  a  walk  to  Selborne, 
twelve  miles  distant,  part  of  the  way  to  be  accom- 
plished that  night  in  the  gloaming,  and  the  rest 
early  on  the  following  morning,  to  give  the  nightin- 
gales a  chance  to  make  any  reparation  they  might 
feel  inclined  to  for  the  neglect  with  which  they  had 
treated  me.  There  was  a  foot-path  over  the  hill  and 
through  Leechmere  bottom  to  Liphook,  and  to  this, 
with  the  sun  half  an  hour  high,  I  committed  myself. 
The  feature  in  this  hill  scenery  of  Surrey  and  Sussex 
that  is  new  to  American  eyes  is  given  by  the  furze 
and  heather,  broad  black  or  dark-brown  patches  of 
which  sweep  over  the  high  rolling  surfaces,  like  sable 
mantles.  Tennyson's  house  stands  amid  this  dusky 
scenery,  a  few  miles  east  of  Hazlemere.  The  path 
led  through  a  large  common,  partly  covered  with 
grass  and  partly  grown  up  to  furze,  —  another  un- 
American  feature.  Doubly  precious  is  land  in  Eng- 
land, and  yet  so  much  of  it  given  to  parks  and 
pleasure-grounds,  and  so  much  of  it  left  unreclaimed 


112  A  HUNT  FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

in  commons !  These  commons  are  frequently  met 
with  ;  about  Selborne  they  are  miles  in  extent,  snd 
embrace  the  Hanger  and  other  woods.  No  one  can 
inclose  them  or  appropriate  them  to  his  own  use. 
The  landed  proprietor  of  whose  estates  they  form  a 
part  cannot ;  they  belong  to  the  people,  to  the  lease- 
holders. The  villagers  and  others  who  own  houses 
on  leased  land  pasture  their  cows  upon  them,  gather 
the  furze,  and  cut  the  wood.  In  some  places  the 
commons  belong  to  the  crown  and  are  crown  lands. 
These  large  uninclosed  spaces  often  give  a  free  and 
easy  air  to  the  landscape  that  is  very  welcome.  Near 
the  top  of  the  hill  I  met  a  little  old  man  nearly  hid- 
den beneath  a  burden  of  furze.  He  was  backing  it 
home  for  fuel  and  other  uses.  He  paused  obsequious, 
and  listened  to  my  inquiries.  A  dwarfish  sort  of 
man,  whose  ugliness  was  redolent  of  the  humblest 
chimney  corner.  Bent  beneath  his  bulky  burden,  and 
grinning  upon  me,  he  was  a  visible  embodiment  of  the 
poverty,  ignorance,  and,  I  may  say,  the  domesticity 
of  the  lowliest  peasant  home.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  en- 
countered a  walking  superstition,  fostered  beside  a 
hearth  lighted  by  furze  fagots  and  by  branches 
dropped  by  the  nesting  rooks  and  ravens  —  a  figure 
half  repulsive  and  half  alluring.  On  the  border  of 
Leechmere  bottom  I  sat  down  above  a  straggling 
copse,  aflame  as  usual  with  the  foxglove,  and  gave 
eye  and  ear  to  the  scene.  While  sitting  here,  I 
saw  and  heard  for  the  first  time  the  black-capped 
warbler.  I  recognized  the  note  at  once  by  its  bright* 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  113 

ness  and  strength  and  a  faint  suggestion  in  it  of 
the  nightingale's.  But  it  was  disappointing :  I  had 
expected  a  nearer  approach  to  its  great  rival.  The 
bird  was  very  shy,  but  did  finally  show  herself  fairly 
several  times,  as  she  did  also  near  Selborne,  where 
I  heard  the  song  oft  repeated  and  prolonged.  It 
is  a  ringing,  animated  strain,  but  as  a  whole  seemed 
to  me  crude,  not  smoothly  and  finely  modulated.  I 
could  name  several  of  our  own  birds  that  surpass  it 
in  pure  music.  Like  its  congeners,  the  garden  war- 
bler and  the  white-throat,  it  sings  with  great  empha- 
sis and  strength,  but  its  song  is  silvern,  not  golden. 
"  Little  birds  with  big  voices,"  one  says  to  himself 
after  having  heard  most  of  the  British  songsters. 
My  path  led  me  an  adventurous  course  through  the 
copses  and  bottoms  and  open  commons,  in  the  long 
twilight.  At  one  point  I  came  upon  three  young 
men  standing  together  and  watching  a  dog  that  was 
working  a  near  field,  —  one  of  them  probably  the 
squire's  son,  and  the  other  two  habited  like  laborers. 
In  a  little  thicket  near  by  there  was  a  brilliant  cho- 
rus of  bird  voices,  the  robin,  the  song-thrush,  and 
the  blackbird,  all  vying  with  each  other.  To  my  in- 
quiry, put  to  test  the  reliability  of  the  young  coun- 
trymen's ears,  they  replied  that  one  of  the  birds 
I  heard  was  the  nightingale,  and,  after  a  moment's 
attention,  singled  out  the  robin  as  the  bird  in  ques- 
tion. This  incident  so  impressed  me  that  I  paid  lit- 
tle attention  to  the  report  of  the  next  man  I  met, 
who  said  he  had  heard  a  nightingale  just  around  a 
8 


114  A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

bend  in  the  road,  a  few  minutes'  walk  in  advance  of 
me.  At  ten  o'clock  I  reached  Liphook.  I  expected 
and  half  hoped  the  inn  would  turn  its  back  upon  me 
again,  in  which  case  I  proposed  to  make  for  Wolmer 
Forest,  a  few  miles  distant,  but  it  did  not.  Before 
going  to  bed,  I  took  a  short  and  hasty  walk  down  a 
promising-looking  lane,  and  again  met  a  couple  who 
had  heard  nightingales.  "  It  was  a  nightingale,  was 
it  not,  Charley  ?  " 

If  all  the  people  of  whom  I  inquired  for  nightin- 
gales in  England  could  have  been  together  and  com- 
pared notes,  they  probably  would  not  have  been  long 
in  deciding  that  there  was  at  least  one  crazy  Ameri- 
can abroad. 

I  proposed  to  be  up  and  off  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  which  seemed  greatly  to  puzzle  mine  host. 
At  first  he  thought  it  could  not  be  done,  but  finally 
saw  his  way  out  of  the  dilemma,  and  said  he  would 
get  up  and  undo  the  door  for  me  himself.  The 
morning  was  cloudy  and  misty,  though  the  previous 
night  had  been  of  the  fairest.  There  is  one  thing 
they  do  not  have  in  England  that  we  can  boast  of  at 
home,  and  that  is  a  good  masculine  type  of  weather ; 
it  is  not  even  feminine;  it  is  childish  and  puerile, 
though  I  am  told  that  occasionally  there  is  a  full- 
grown  storm.  But  I  saw  nothing  but  petulant  little 
showers  and  prolonged  juvenile  sulks.  The  clouds 
have  no  reserve,  no  dignity  ;  if  there  is  a  drop  of 
Water  in  them  (and  there  generally  are  several  drops), 
out  it  comes.  The  prettiest  little  showers  march 


A  HUNT   FOR  THE  NIGHTINGALE.  115 

across  the  country  in  summer,  scarcely  bigger  than  a 
street  watering-cart ;  sometimes  by  getting  over  the 
fence  one  can  avoid  them,  but  they  keep  the  hay- 
makers in  a  perpetual  flurry.  There  is  no  cloud 
scenery,  as  with  us,  no  mass  and  solidity,  no  height 
nor  depth.  The  clouds  seem  low,  vague,  and  va- 
pory, —  immature,  indefinite,  inconsequential,  like 
youth. 

The  walk  to  Selborne  was  through  mist  and  light 
rain.  Few  bird-voices,  save  the  cry  of  the  lapwing 
and  the  curlew,  were  heard.  Shortly  after  leaving 
Liphook  the  road  takes  a  straight  cut  for  three  or 
four  miles  through  a  level,  black,  barren,  peaty 
stretch  of  country,  with  Wolmer  Forest  a  short  dis- 
tance on  the  right.  Under  the  low,  hanging  clouds 
the  scene  was  a  dismal  one  —  a  black  earth  beneath 
and  a  gloomy  sky  above.  For  miles  the  only  sign 
of  life  was  a  baker's  cart  rattling  along  the  smooth, 
white  road.  At  the  end  of  this  solitude  I  came  to 
cultivated  fields,  and  a  little  hamlet  and  an  inn.  At 
this  inn  (for  a  wonder  !)  I  got  some  breakfast.  The 
family  had  not  yet  had  theirs,  and  I  sat  with  them 
at  the  table,  and  had  substantial  fare.  From  this 
point  I  followed  a  foot-path  a  couple  of  miles  through 
fields  and  parks.  The  highways  for  the  most  part 
seemed  so  narrow  and  exclusive,  or  inclusive,  such 
penalties  seemed  to  attach  to  a  view  over  the  high 
walls  and  hedges  that  shut  me  in,  that  a  foot-path 
was  always  a  welcome  escape  to  me.  I  opened 
the  wicket  or  mounted  the  stile  without  much  con- 


116  A  HUNT   FOB   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

cern  as  to  whether  it  would  further  me  on  my  way 
or  not.  It  was  like  turning  the  flank  of  an  en- 
emy. These  well-kept  fields  and  lawns,  these  cozy 
nooks,  these  stately  and  exclusive  houses  that  had 
taken  such  pains  to  shut  out  the  public  gaze  —  from 
the  foot-path  one  had  them  at  an  advantage,  and 
could  pluck  out  their  mystery.  On  striking  the  high- 
way again,  I  met  the  postmistress,  stepping  briskly 
along  with  the  morning  mail.  Her  husband  bad- 
died,  and  she  had  taken  his  place  as  mail-carrier. 
England  is  so  densely  populated,  the  country  is  so 
like  a  great  city  suburb,  that  your  mail  is  brought  to 
your  door  everywhere,  the  same  as  in  town.  I 
walked  a  distance  with  a  boy  driving  a  little  old 
white  horse  with  a  cart-load  of  brick.  He  lived  at 
Hedleigh,  six  miles  distant ;  he  had  left  there  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  had  heard  a  nightingale. 
He  was  sure ;  as  I  pressed  him,  he  described  the 
place  minutely.  "  She  was  in  the  large  fir-tree  by 
Tom  Anthony's  gate,  at  the  south  end  of  the  village." 
Then,  I  said,  doubtless  I  shall  find  one  in  some  of 
Gilbert  White's  haunts  ;  but  I  did  not.  I  spent  two 
rainy  days  at  Selborne ;  I  passed  many  chilly  and 
cheerless  hours  loitering  along  those  wet  lanes  arid 
dells  and  dripping  hangers,  wooing  both  my  bird  and 
the  spirit  of  the  gentle  parson,  but  apparently  with- 
out getting  very  near  to  either.  When  I  think  of 
the  place  now,  I  see  its  hurrying  and  anxious  hay- 
makers in  the  field  of  mown  grass,  and  hear  the  cry 
of  a  child  that  sat  in  the  hay  back  of  the  old  church, 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  117 

and  cried  by  the  hour,  while  its  mother  was  busy 
with  her  rake  not  far  off.  The  rain  had  ceased,  the 
hay  had  dried  off  a  little,  and  scores  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  but  mostly  women,  had  flocked  to  the 
fields  to  rake  it  up.  The  hay  is  got  together  inch  by 
inch,  and  every  inch  is  fought  for.  They  first  rake 
it  up  into  narrow  swaths,  each  person  taking  a  strip 
about  a  yard  wide.  If  they  hold  the  ground  thus 
gained,  when  the  hay  dries  an  hour  or  two  longer, 
they  take  another  hitch,  and  thus  on  till  they  get  it 
into  the  cock  or  "  carry  "  it  from  the  windrow.  It 
is  usually  nearly  worn  out  with  handling  before  they 
get  it  into  the  rick. 

From  Selborne  I  went  to  Alton,  along  a  road  that 
was  one  prolonged  rifle-pit,  but  smooth  and  hard  as  a 
rock ;  thence  by  train  back  to  London.  To  leave 
no  ground  for  self-accusation  in  future,  on  the  score 
of  not  having  made  a  thorough  effort  to  hear  my 
songster,  I  the  next  day  made  a  trip  north  toward 
Cambridge,  leaving  the  train  at  Hitchin,  a  large  pic- 
turesque old  town,  and  thought  myself  in  just  the 
right  place  at  last.  I  found  a  road  between  the  sta- 
tion and  the  town  proper  called  Nightingale  Lane, 
famous  for  its  songsters.  A  man  who  kept  a  thrifty 
looking  inn  on  the  corner  (where,  by  the  way,  I  was 
again  refused  both  bed  and  board)  said  they  sang 
night  and  morning  in  the  trees  opposite.  He  had 
heard  them  the  night  before,  but  had  not  noticed  them 
that  morning.  He  often  sat  at  night  with  his  friends, 
with  open  windows,  listening  to  the  strain.  He  said 


118  A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

he  had  tried  several  times  to  hold  his  breath  as  long 
as  the  bird  did  in  uttering  certain  notes,  but  could 
not  do  it.  This,  I  knew,  was  an  exaggeration ;  but 
I  waited  eagerly  for  night-fall,  and  when  it  came 
paced  the  street  like  a  patrolman,  and  paced  other 
streets,  and  lingered  about  other  Mkely  localities,  but 
caught  nothing  but  neuralgic  pains  in  my  shoulder. 
I  had  no  better  success  in  the  morning,  and  here  gave 
over  the  pursuit,  saying  to  myself,  It  matters  little, 
after  all ;  I  have  seen  the  country  and  had  some  ob- 
ject for  a  walk,  and  that  is  sufficient. 

Altogether  I  heard  the  bird  less  than  five  minutes, 
and  only  a  few  bars  of  its  song,  but  enough  to  satisfy 
me  of  the  surprising  quality  of  the  strain. 

It  had  the  master  tone  as  clearly  as  Tennyson,  or 
any  great  prima  donna,  or  famous  orator  has  it.  In- 
deed, it  was  just  the  same.  Here  is  the  complete 
artist,  of  whom  all  these  other  birds  are  but  hints 
and  studies.  Bright,  startling,  assured,  of  great  com- 
pass and  power,  it  easily  dominates  all  other  notes ; 
the  harsher  chur-r-r-r-rg  notes  serve  as  foil  to  her 
surpassing  brilliancy.  Wordsworth,  among  the  poets, 
has  hit  off  the  song  nearest :  — 

"  Those  notes  of  thine  —  they  pierce  and  pierce ; 
Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce  !  " 

I  could  easily  understand  that  this  bird  might  keep 
people  awake  at  night  by  singing  near  their  houses, 
as  I  was  assured  it  frequently  does  :  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  strain  so  startling  and  awakening.  Its 


A  HUNT   FOR   THE  NIGHTINGALE.  119 

start  is  a  vivid  flash  of  sound.  On  the  whole,  a  high- 
bred, courtly,  chivalrous  song ;  ?.  song  for  ladies  to 
hear  leaning  from  embowered  windows  on  moonlight 
nights ;  a  song  for  royal  parks  and  groves  —  and 
easeful  but  impassioned  life.  We  have  no  bird-voice 
so  piercing  and  loud,  with  such  flexibility  and  com- 
pass, such  full-throated  harmony  and  long-drawn 
cadences;  though  we  have  songs  of  more  melody, 
tenderness,  and  plaintiveness.  None  but  the  nightin- 
gale could  have  inspired  Keats's  ode  —  that  longing 
for  self-forgetfulness  and  for  the  oblivion  of  the 
world,  to  escape  the  fret  and  fever  of  life, 

"And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim." 


ENGLISH  AND   AMERICAN  SONG- 
*  BIRDS. 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS. 

THE  charm  of  the  songs  of  birds,  like  that  of  a 
nation's  popular  airs  and  hymns,  is  so  little  a  ques- 
tion of  intrinsic  musical  excellence  and  so  largely  a 
matter  of  association  and  suggestion,  or  of  subjective 
coloring  and  reminiscence,  that  it  is  perhaps  entirely 
natural  for  every  people  to  think  their  own  feathered 
songsters  the  best.  What  music  would  there  not  be 
to  the  homesick  American,  in  Europe,  in  the  simple 
and  plaintive  note  of  our  bluebird,  or  the  ditty  of  our 
song-sparrow,  or  the  honest  carol  of  our  robin  ;  and 
what  to  the  European  traveler  in  this  country,  in  the 
burst  of  the  blackcap,  or  the  red-breast,  or  the  whis- 
tle of  the  merlin  !  The  relative  merit  of  bird-songs 
can  hardly  be  settled  dogmatically  ;  I  suspect  there 
is  very  little  of  what  we  call  music,  or  of  what  could 
be  noted  on  the  musical  scale,  in  even  the  best  of 
them ;  they  are  parts  of  nature,  and  their  power  is  in 
the  degree  in  which  they  speak  to  our  experience. 

When  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  who  is  a  lover  of  the 
birds  and  a  good  ornithologist,  was  in  this  country, 
he  got  the  impression  that  our  song-birds  were  infe- 
rior to  the  British,  and  he  refers  to  others  of  his  coun- 
trymen as  of  like  opinion.  No  wonder  he  thought 


124       ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS. 

our  robin  inferior  in  power  to  the  missal  thrush,  in 
variety  to  the  mavis,  and  in  melody  to  the  blackbird. 
Robin  did  not  and  could  not  sing  to  his  ears  the  song 
he  sings  to  ours.  Then  it  is  very  likely  true  that  his 
Grace  did  not  hear  the  robin  in  the  most  opportune 
moment  and  season,  or  when  the  contrast  of  his  song 
with  the  general  silence  and  desolation  of  nature  is 
the  most  striking  and  impressive.  The  nightingale 
needs  to  be  heard  at  night,  the  lark  at  dawn  rising  to 
meet  the  sun ;  and  robin,  if  you  would  know  the  magic 
of  his  voice,  should  be  heard  in  early  spring,  when,  as 
the  sun  is  setting,  he  carols  steadily  for  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes,  from  the  top  of  some  near  tree.  There  is 
perhaps  no  other  sound  in  nature ;  patches  of  snow 
linger  here  and  there ;  the  trees  are  naked  and  the 
earth  is  cold  and  dead,  and  this  contented,  hopeful, 
reassuring,  and  withal  musical  strain,  poured  out  so 
freely  and  deliberately,  fills  the  void  with  the  very 
breath  and  presence  of  the  spring.  It  is  a  simple 
strain,  well  suited  to  the  early  season ;  there  are  no 
intricacies  in  it,  but  its  honest  cheer  and  directness, 
with  its  slight  plaintive  tinge,  like  that  of  the  sun 
gilding  the  tree-tops,  go  straight  to  the  heart.  The 
compass  and  variety  of  the  robin's  powers  .are  not  to 
be  despised  either.  A  German  who  has  great  skill 
in  the  musical  education  of  birds  told  me  what  I  was 
surprised  to  hear,  namely,  that  our  robin  surpasses 
the  European  blackbird  in  capabilities  of  voice. 

The  Duke  does  not  mention  by  name  all  the  birds 
he  heard  while  in  this  country.     He  was  evidently 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS.       125 

influenced  in  his  opinion  of  them  by  the  fact  that 
our  common  sandpiper  appeared  to  be  a  silent  bird, 
whereas  its  British  cousin,  the  sandpiper  of  the  lakes 
and  streams  of  the  Scottish  Highlands,  is  very  loqua- 
cious, and  the  "  male  bird  has  a  continuous  and  most 
lively  song."  Either  the  Duke  must  have  seen  our 
bird  in  one  of  its  silent  and  meditative  moods,  or  else 
in  the  wilds  of  Canada,  where  his  Grace  speaks  of 
having  seen  it,  the  sandpiper  is  a  more  taciturn  bird 
than  it  is  in  the  States.  True,  its  call-notes  are  not 
incessant,  and  it  is  not  properly  a  song-bird  any  more 
than  the  British  species  is,  but  it  has  a  very  pretty 
and  pleasing  note  as  it  flits  up  and  down  our  sum- 
mer streams,  or  runs  along  on  their  gray,  pebbly, 
and  bowlder-strewn  shallows.  I  often  hear  its  call- 
ing and  piping  at  night  during  its  spring  migratings. 
Indeed,  we  have  no  silent  bird  that  I  am  aware  of, 
though  our  pretty  cedar-bird  has,  perhaps,  the  least 
voice  of  any.  A  lady  writes  me  that  she  has  heard 
the  humming-bird  sing,  and  says  she  is  not  to  be 
put  down,  even  if  I  were  to  prove  by  the  anatomy 
of  the  bird's  vocal  organs  that  a  song  was  impossible 
to  it. 

Argyll  says  that  though  he  was  in  the  woods  and 
fields  of  Canada  and  of  the  States  in  the  richest  mo- 
ment of  the  spring,  he  heard  little  of  that  burst  of 
song  which  in  England  comes  from  the  blackcap,  and 
the  garden  warbler,  and  the  white-throat,  and  the 
reed  warbler,  and  the  common  wren,  and  (locally) 
from  the  nightingale.  There  is  no  lack  of  a  burst  of 


126       ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS. 

song  in  this  country  (except  in  the  remote  forest  soli- 
tudes) during  the  richest  moment  of  the  spring,  say 
from  the  1st  to  the  20th  of  May,  and  at  times  till 
near  midsummer ;  moreover,  more  bird- voices  join 
in  it,  as  I  shall  point  out,  than  in  Britain  ;  but  it  is 
probably  more  fitful  and  intermittent,  more  confined 
to  certain  hours  of  the  day,  and  probably  proceeds 
from  throats  less  loud  and  vivacious  than  that  with 
which  our  distinguished  critic  was  familiar.  The  ear 
hears  best  and  easiest  what  it  has  heard  before. 
Properly  to  apprehend  and  appreciate  bird-songs,  es- 
pecially to  disentangle  them  from  the  confused  mur- 
mur of  nature,  requires  more  or  less  familiarity  with 
them.  If  the  Duke  had  passed  a  season  with  us  in 
some  one  place  in  the  country,  in  New  York  or  New 
England,  he  would  probably  have  modified  his  views 
about  the  silence  of  our  birds. 

One  season,  early  in  May,  I  discovered  an  English 
sky-lark  in  full  song  above  a  broad,  low  meadow  in 
the  midst  of  a  landscape  that  possessed  features  at- 
tractive to  a  great  variety  of  our  birds.  Every  morn- 
ing for  many  days  I  used  to  go  and  sit  on  the  brow 
of  a  low  hill  that  commanded  the  field,  or  else  upon 
a  gentle  swell  in  the  midst  of  the  meadow  itself,  and 
listen  to  catch  the  song  of  the  lark.  The  maze  and 
tangle  of  bird-voices  and  bird-choruses  through  which 
my  ear  groped  its  way  searching  for  the  new  song 
can  be  imagined  when  I  say  that  within  hearing 
there  were  from  fifteen  to  twenty  different  kinds  of 
songsters,  all  more  or  less  in  full  tune.  If  their 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS.       127 

notes  and  calls  could  have  been  materialized  and 
made  as  palpable  to  the  eye  as  they  were  to  the  ear, 
I  think  they  would  have  veiled  the  landscape  and 
darkened  the  day.  There  were  big  songs  and  little 
songs,  songs  from  the  trees,  the  bushes,  the  ground, 
the  air,  warbles,  trills,  chants,  musical  calls,  and 
squeals,  etc.  Near  by  in  the  foreground  were  the 
cat-bird  and  the  brown  thrasher,  the  former  in  the 
bushes,  the  latter  on  the  top  of  a  hickory.  These 
birds  are  related  to  the  mocking-bird,  and  may  be 
called  performers ;  their  songs  are  a  series  of  vocal 
feats,  like  the  exhibition  of  an  acrobat ;  they  throw 
musical  somersaults  and  turn  and  twist  and  contort 
themselves  in  a  very  edifying  manner,  with  now  and 
then  a  ventriloquial  touch.  The  cat-bird  is  the  more 
shrill,  supple,  and  feminine  ;  the  thrasher  the  louder, 
richer,  and  more  audacious.  The  mate  of  the  latter 
had  a  nest,  which  I  found  in  a  field  under  the  spread- 
ing ground  juniper.  From  several  points  along  the 
course  of  a  bushy  little  creek  there  came  a  song,  or 
a  melody  of  notes  and  calls,  that  also  put  me  out  — 
the  tipsy,  hodge-podge  strain  of  the  polyglot  chat, 
a  strong,  olive-backed,  yellow-breasted,  black-billed 
bird,  with  a  voice  like  that  of  a  jay  or  a  crow  that  had 
been  to  school  to  a  robin  or  an  oriole  —  a  performer 
sure  to  arrest  your  ear  and  sure  to  elude  your  eye. 
There  is  no  bird  so  afraid  of  being  seen,  or  fonder  of 
being  heard. 

The  golden  voice  of  the  wood-thrush  that  came  to 
me  from  the  border  of  the  woods  on  my  right  was 


128       ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS. 

no  hinderance  to  the  ear,  it  was  so  serene,  liquid, 
and,  as  it  were,  transparent :  the  lark's  song  has 
nothing  in  common  with  it.  Neither  were  the  songs 
of  the  many  bobolinks  in  the  meadow  at  all  confusing 
—  a  brief  tinkle  of  silver  bells  in  the  grass,  while  I 
was  listening  for  a  sound  more  like  the  sharp  and 
continuous  hum  of  silver  wheels  upon  a  pebbly  beach. 
Certain  notes  of  the  red-shouldered  starlings  in  the 
alders  and  swamp  maples  near  by,  the  distant  bar- 
baric voice  of  the  great  crested  fly-catcher,  the  jingle 
of  the  kingbird,  the  shrill,  metallic  song  of  the  sa- 
vanna sparrow,  and  the  piercing  call  of  the  meadow 
lark,  all  stood  more  or  less  in  the  way  of  the  strain 
I  was  listening  for,  because  every  one  had  a  touch  of 
that  burr  or  guttural  hum  of  the  lark's  song.  The 
ear  had  still  other  notes  to  contend  with,  as  the 
strong,  bright  warble  of  the  tanager,  the  richer  and 
more  melodious  strain  of  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak, 
the  distant,  brief,  and  emphatic  song  of  the  chewink, 
the  child-like  contented  warble  of  the  red-eyed  vireo, 
the  animated  strain  of  the  goldfinch,  the  softly  ring- 
ing notes  of  the  bush-sparrow,  the  rapid,  circling, 
vivacious  strain  of  the  purple  finch,  the  gentle  lullaby 
of  the  song-sparrow,  the  pleasing  "  wichery,"  "  wich- 
ery"  of  the  yellow-throat,  the  clear  whistle  of  the 
oriole,  the  loud  call  of  the  high-hole,  the  squeak  and 
chatter  of  swallows,  etc.  But  when  the  lark  did  rise 
in  full  song,  it  was  easy  to  hear  him  athwart  all  these 
various  sounds,  first,  because  of  the  sense  of  altitude 
his  strain  had, —  its  skyward  character, —  and  then 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS.        129 

because  of  its  loud,  aspirated,  penetrating,  unceasing, 
jubilant  quality.  It  cut  its  way  to  the  ear  like  some- 
thing exceeding  swift,  sharp,  and  copious.  It  over- 
took and  outran  every  other  sound ;  it  had  an  under- 
tone like  the  humming  of  multitudinous  wheels  and 
spindles.  Now  and  then  some  turn  would  start  and 
set  off  a  new  combination  of  shriller  or  of  graver 
notes,  but  all  of  the  same  precipitate,  out-rushing, 
and  down-pouring  character ;  not,  on  the  whole,  a 
sweet  or  melodious  song,  but  a  strong  and  blithe  one. 
The  Duke  is  abundantly  justified  in  saying  that 
we  have  no  bird  in  this  country,  at  least  east  of  the 
Mississippi,  that  can  fill  the  place  of  the  sky-lark. 
Our  high,  wide,  bright  skies  seem  his  proper  field, 
too.  His  song  is  a  pure  ecstasy,  untouched  by  any 
plain tiveness,  or  pride,  or  mere  hilarity  —  a  well- 
spring  of  morning  joy  and  blitheness  set  high  above 
the  fields  and  downs.  Its  effect  is  well  suggested  in 
this  stanza  of  Wordsworth  :  — 

"Up  with  me,  up  with  me,  into  the  clouds ! 

For  thy  song,  lark,  is  strong  ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me,  into  the  clouds  ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  all  the  heavens  about  thee  ringing, 

Lift  me,  guide  me,  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind !  " 

But  judging  from  Gilbert  White's  and  Barrington's 
lists,  I  should  say  that  our  bird-choir  was  a  larger 
one,  and  embraced  more  good  songsters,  than  the 
British. 

White  names  twenty-two  species  of  birds  that  sing 
9 


130       ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS. 

in  England  during  the  spring  and  summer,  including 
the  swallow  in  the  list.  A  list  of  the  spring  and 
summer  songsters  in  New  York  and  New  England, 
without  naming  any  that  are,  characteristically,  wood 
birds,  like  the  hermit  thrush  and  veery,  the  two  wag- 
tails, the  thirty  or  more  warblers,  and  the  solitary 
vireo,  or  including  any  of  the  birds  that  have  musical 
call-notes,  and  by  some  are  denominated  songsters, 
as  the  bluebird,  the  sandpiper,  the  swallow,  the  red- 
shouldered  starling,  the  pewee,  the  high-hole,  and 
others,  would  embrace  more  names,  though,  perhaps, 
.no  songsters  equal  to  the  lark  and  nightingale,  to 
wit :  the  robin,  the  cat-bird,  the  Baltimore  oriole,  the 
orchard  oriole,  the  song-sparrow,  the  wood-sparrow, 
the  vesper  sparrow,  the  social  sparrow,  the  swamp 
sparrow,  the  purple  finch,  the  wood-thrush,  the  scar- 
let tanager,  the  indigo-bird,  the  goldfinch,  the  bobo- 
link, the  summer  yellow-bird,  the  meadow  lark,  the 
house-wren,  the  marsh-wren,  the  brown  thrasher, 
the  chewink,  the  chat,  the  red-eyed  vireo,  the  white- 
eyed  vireo,  the  Maryland  yellow-throat,  and  the  rose- 
breasted  grosbeak.  Our  bird-choir  is  far  richer  in 
sparrow  voices  than  the  British.  There  appear  to 
be  but  two  sparrows  in  that  country  that  sing,  the 
hedge-sparrow  and  reed-sparrow,  —  both,  according 
to  Barrington,  very  inferior  songsters ;  the  latter 
without  mellowness  or  plaintiveness,  and  with  but 
little  sprightliness  or  compass,  and  the  former  evi- 
dently lower  in  the  scale  than  either  of  our  birds. 
What  a  ditty  is  that  of  our  song-sparrow,  rising  from 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS.       131 

the  garden-fence  or  the  roadside  so  early  in  March, 
so  prophetic  and  touching,  with  endless  variations 
and  pretty  trilling  effects ;  or  the  song  of  the  vesper 
sparrow,  full  of  the  repose  and  the  wild  sweetness  of 
the  fields ;  or  the  strain  of  the  little  bush-sparrow, 
suddenly  projected  upon  the  silence  of  the  fields,  or 
of  the  evening  twilight,  and  delighting  the  ear  as  a 
beautiful  scroll  delights  the  eye.  The  white-crowned, 
the  white-throated,  and  the  Canada  sparrows  sing 
transiently  spring  and  fall,  and  I  have  heard  the  fox- 
sparrow  in  April  when  his  song  haunted  my  heart 
like  some  bright,  sad,  delicious  memory  of  youth  — 
the  richest  and  most  moving  of  all  sparrow-songs. 
Our  wren-music,  too,  is  superior  to  anything  of  the 
kind  in  the  Old  World,  because  we  have  a  greater 
variety  of  wren-songsters.  Our  house-wren  is  infe- 
rior to  the  British  house-wren,  but  our  marsh-wren 
has  a  lively  song,  while  our  winter  wren,  in  spright- 
liuess,  mellowness,  plaintiveness,  and  execution,  is 
surpassed  by  but  few  songsters  in  the  world.  The 
summer  haunts  of  this  wren  are  our  high,  cool,  north- 
ern woods,  where,  for  the  most  part,  his  music  is  lost 
on  the  primeval  solitude. 

The  British  fly-catcher,  according  to  White,  is  a 
silent  bird,  while  our  species,  as  the  phcebe-bird,  the 
wood-pewee,  the  kingbird,  the  little  green  fly-catcher, 
and  others,  all  have  notes  more  or  less  lively  and 
musical.  The  great  crested  fly-catcher  has  a  harsh 
voice,  but  the  pathetic  and  silvery  note  of  the  wood- 
pewee  more  than  makes  up  for  it.  White  says  the 


132       ENGLISH   AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS. 

golden-crowned  wren  is  not  a  song-bird  in  Great 
Britain,  but  the  corresponding  species  here  has  a 
rich,  delicious,  and  prolonged  warble.  In  the  North- 
ern States,  its  song  is  noticeable  about  the  ever- 
greens for  a  week  or  two  in  May,  while  the  bird 
pauses  to  feed,  on  its  way  to  Canada  and  beyond. 
In  its  breeding  haunts,  the  ruby-crowned  kinglet,  tiny 
as  it  is,  fills  the  solitudes  with  music. 

There  are  no  vireos  in  Europe,  nor  birds  that  an- 
swer to  them.  With  us,  they  contribute  an  impor- 
tant element  to  the  music  of  our  groves  and  woods. 
There  are  few  birds  I  should  miss  more  than  the  red- 
eyed  vireo,  with  his  cheerful  musical  soliloquy,  all 
day  and  all  summer,  in  the  maples  and  locusts.  It  is 
he,  or  rather  she,  that  builds  the  exquisite  basket- 
nest  on  the  ends  of  the  low,  leafy  branches,  suspend- 
ing it  between  two  twigs.  The  warbling  vireo  has  a 
stronger,  louder  strain,  often  more  continuous,  but 
not  quite  so  sweet.  The  solitary  vireo  is  heard  only 
in  the  deep  woods,  while  the  white-eyed  is  still  more 
local  or  restricted  in  its  range,  being  found  only  in 
wet,  bushy  places,  whence  its  vehement,  varied,  and 
brilliant  song  is  sure  to  catch  the  dullest  ear. 

The  goldfinches  of  the  two  countries,  though  dif- 
fering in  plumage,  are  perhaps  pretty  evenly  matched 
in  song ;  while  our  purple  finch,  or  linnet,  I  am  per- 
suaded, ranks  far  above  the  English  linnet,  or  lintie, 
as  the  Scotch  call  it.  In  compass,  in  melody,  in 
sprightliness,  it  is  a  remarkable  songster.  Indeed, 
take  the  finches  as  a  family,  they  certainly  furnish 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS.       133 

more  good  songsters  in  this  country  than  in  Great. 
Britain.  They  furnish  the  staple  of  our  bird-melody, 
including  in  the  family  the  tanager  and  the  grosbeaks, 
while  in  Europe  the  warblers  lead.  White  names 
seven  finches  in  his  list,  and  Barrington  includes 
eight,  none  of  them  very  noted  songsters,  except  the 
linnet.  Our  list  would  include  the  sparrows  above 
named,  and  the  indigo-bird,  the  goldfinch,  the  purple 
finch,  the  scarlet  tanager,  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak, 
the  blue  grosbeak,  and  the  cardinal  bird.  Of  these 
birds,  all  except  the  fox-sparrow  and  the  blue  gros- 
beak are  familiar  summer  songsters  throughout  the 
Middle  and  Eastern  States.  The  indigo-bird  is  a 
midsummer  and  an  all-summer  songster  of  great  brill- 
iancy. So  is  the  tanager.  I  judge  there  is  no  Eu- 
ropean thrush  that,  in  the  pure  charm  of  melody  and 
hymn-like  serenity  and  spirituality,  equals  our  wood 
and  hermit  thrushes,  as  there  is  no  bird  there  that, 
in  simple  lingual  excellence,  approaches  our  bobo- 
link. 

The  European  cuckoo  makes  more  music  than 
ours,  and  their  robin-redbreast  is  a  better  singer  than 
the  allied  species,  to  wit,  the  bluebird,  with  us.  But 
it  is  mainly  in  the  larks  and  warblers  that  the  Euro- 
pean birds  are  richer  in  songsters  than  are  ours. 
We  have  an  army  of  small  wood-warblers,  —  no  less 
than  forty  species,  —  but  most  of  them  have  faint 
chattering  or  lisping  songs  that  escape  all  but  the 
most  attentive  ear,  and  then  they  spend  the  summer 
far  to  the  north.  Our  two  wagtails  are  our  most  brill- 


134       ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS. 

iant  warblers,  if  we  except  the  kinglets,  which  are 
northern  birds  in  summer,  and  the  Kentucky  warbler, 
which  is  a  southern  bird ;  but  they  probably  do  not 
match  the  English  blackcap,  or  white-throat,  or  gar- 
den warbler,  to  say  nothing  of  the  nightingale,  though 
Audubon  thought  our  large-billed  water  -  thrush,  or 
wagtail,  equaled  that  famous  bird.  It  is  certainly  a 
brilliant  songster,  but  most  provokingly  brief;  the 
ear  is  arrested  by  a  sudden  joyous  burst  of  melody 
proceeding  from  the  dim  aisles  along  which  some 
wild  brook  has  its  way,  but  just  as  you  say  "  Listen  !  " 
it  ceases.  I  hear  and  see  the  bird  every  season, 
along  a  rocky  stream  that  flows  through  a  deep 
chasm  amid  a  wood  of  hemlock  and  pine.  As  I  sit 
at  the  foot  of  some  cascade,  or  on  the  brink  of  some 
little  dark  eddying  pool  above  it,  this  bird  darts  by 
me,  up  or  down  the  stream,  or  alights  near  me,  upon 
a  rock  or  stone  at  the  edge  of  the  water.  Its  speckled 
breast,  its  dark  olive-colored  back,  its  teetering,  minc- 
ing gait,  like  that  of  a  sandpiper,  and  its  sharp  chit, 
like  the  click  of  two  pebbles  under  water,  are  char- 
acteristic features.  Then  its  quick,  ringing  song, 
which  you  are  sure  presently  to  hear,  suggests  some- 
thing so  bright  and  silvery  that  it  seems  almost  to 
light  up,  for  a  brief  moment,  the  dim  retreat.  If 
this  strain  were  only  sustained  and  prolonged  like 
the  nightingale's,  there  would  be  good  grounds  for 
Audubon's  comparison.  Its  cousin,  the  wood  wag- 
tail, or  golden-crowned  thrush  of  the  older  ornitholo. 
gists,  and  golden-crowned  accentor  of  the  later,  —  a 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN 

common  bird  in  all  our  woods,  —  has  a  similar  strain, 
which  it  delivers  as  it  were  surreptitiously,  and  in  the 
most  precipitate  manner,  while  on  the  wing,  high 
above  the  tree-tops.  It  is  a  kind  of  wood-lark,  prac- 
ticing and  rehearsing  on  the  sly.  When  the  modest 
songster  is  ready  to  come  out  and  give  all  a  chance 
to  hear  his  full  and  completed  strain,  the  European 
wood-lark  will  need  to  look  to  his  laurels.  These 
two  birds  are  our  best  warblers,  and  yet  they  are 
probably  seldom  heard,  except  by  persons  who  know 
and  admire  them.  If  the  two  kinglets  could  also  be 
included  in  our  common  New  England  summer  resi- 
dents, our  warbler  music  would  only  pale  before  the 
song  of  Philomela  herself.  The  English  redstart 
evidently  surpasses  ours  as  a  songster,  and  we  have 
no  bird  to  match  the  English  wood-lark  above  referred 
to,  which  is  said  to  be  but  little  inferior  to  the  sky- 
lark; but,  on  the  other  hand,  besides  the  sparrows 
and  vireos,  already  mentioned,  they  have  no  song- 
sters to  match  our  oriole,  our  orchard- starling,  our 
cat-bird,  our  brown  thrasher  (only  second  to  the 
mocking-bird),  our  chewink,  our  snow-bird,  our  cow- 
bunting,  our  bobolink,  and  our  yellow-breasted  chat. 
As  regards  the  swallows  of  the  two  countries,  the  ad- 
vantage is  rather  on  the  side  of  the  American.  Our 
chimney-swallow,  with  his  incessant,  silvery,  rattling 
chipper,  evidently  makes  more  music  than  the  corre- 
sponding house-swallow  of  Europe  ;  while  our  purple 
martin  is  not  represented  in  the  Old  World  avifauna 
at  all.  And  yet  it  is  probably  true  that  a  dweller  in 


136        ENGLISH  AND   AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS. 

England  hears  more  bird-music  throughout  the  year 
than  a  dweller  in  this  country,  and  that  which,  in 
some  respects,  is  of  a  superior  order. 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  not  so  much  of  it  lost 
"  upon  the  desert  air,"  upon  the  wild,  unlistening  sol- 
itudes. The  English  birds  are  more  domestic  and 
familiar  than  ours  ;  more  directly  and  intimately  as- 
sociated with  man ;  not,  as  a  class,  so  withdrawn  and 
lost  in  tii3  ,-^reat  void  of  the  wild  and  the  unreclaimed. 
England  is  ike  a  continent  concentrated  —  all  the 
waste  land,  the  barren  stretches,  the  wildernesses, 
left  out.  The  birds  are  brought  near  together  and 
near  to  man.  Wood  birds  here  are  house  and  garden 
birds  there.  They  find  good  pasturage  and  protec- 
tion everywhere.  A  land  of  parks,  and  gardens, 
and  hedge-rows,  and  game  preserves,  and  a  climate 
free  from  violent  extremes  —  what  a  stage  for  the 
birds,  and  for  enhancing  the  effect  of  their  songs ! 
How  prolific  they  are,  how  abundant !  Ii  our  song- 
sters were  hunted  and  trapped  by  bird-fanciers  and 
others,  as  the  lark,  and  goldfinch,  and  mavis,  etc.,  are 
in  England,  the  race  would  soon  become  extinct. 
Then,  as  a  rule,  it  is  probably  true  that  the  British 
birds,  as  a  class,  have  more  voice  than  ours  have, 
or  certain  qualities  that  make  their  songs  more  strik- 
ing and  conspicuous,  such  as  greater  vivacity  and 
strength.  They  are  less  bright  in  plumage,  but 
more  animated  in  voice.  They  are  not  so  recently 
out  of  the  woods,  and  their  strains  have  not  that  elu- 
siveness  and  plain tiveness  that  ours  have.  They  sing 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS.       137 

with  more  confidence  and  copiousness,  and  as  if  they, 
too,  had  been  touched  by  civilization. 

Then  they  sing  more  hours  in  the  day,  and  more 
days  in  the  year.  This  is  owing  to  the  milder  and 
more  equable  climate.  I  heard  the  sky-lark  singing 
above  the  South  Downs  in  October,  apparently  with 
full  spring  fervor  and  delight.  The  wren,  the  robin, 
and  the  wood-lark  sing  throughout  the  winter,  and 
in  midsummer  there  are  perhaps  more  vocal  throats 
than  here.  The  heat  and  blaze  of  our  midsummer 
sun  silence  most  of  our  birds. 

There  are  but  four  songsters  that  I  hear  with  any 
regularity  after  the  meridian  of  summer  is  past, 
namely,  the  indigo-bird,  the  wood  or  bush  sparrow, 
the  scarlet  tanager,  and  the  red-eyed  vireo, '  while 
White  names  eight  or  nine  August  songsters,  though 
he  speaks  of  the  yellow-hammer  only  as  persistent. 
His  dictum,  that  birds  sing  as  long  as  nidification 
goes  on,  is  as  true  here  as  in  England.  Hence  our 
wood-thrush  will  continue  in  song  over  into  August 
if,  as  frequently  happens,  its  June  nest  has  been 
broken  up  by  the  crows  or  squirrels. 

The  British  songsters  are  more  vocal  at  night  than 
ours.  White  says  the  grasshopper  lark  chirps  all 
night  in  the  height  of  summer.  The  sedge-bird  also 
sings  the  greater  part  of  the  night.  A  stone  thrown 
into  the  bushes  where  it  is  roosting,  after  it  has  be- 
come silent,  will  set  it  going  again.  Other  British 
birds,  besides  the  nightingale,  sing  more  or  less  at 
night. 


138       ENGLISH  AND   AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS. 

In  this  country  the  mocking-bird  is  the  only  regu- 
lar night-singer  we  have.  Other  songsters  break  out 
occasionally  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  but  so  briefly 
that  it  gives  one  the  impression  that  they  sing  in 
their  sleep.  Thus  I  have  heard  the  hair-bird,  or  chip- 
pie, the  kingbird,  the  oven-bird,  and  the  cuckoo,  fit- 
fully in  the  dead  of  the  night,  like  a  school-boy  laugh- 
ing in  his  dreams. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  certain  aspects  in 
which  our  songsters  appear  to  advantage.  That  they 
surpass  the  European  species  in  sweetness,  tender- 
ness, and  melody  I  have  no  doubt,  and  that  our  mock- 
ing-bird, in  his  native  haunts  in  the  South,  surpasses 
any  bird  in  the  world  in  fluency,  variety,  and  execu- 
tion is  highly  probable.  That  the  total  effect  of  his 
strain  may  be  less  winning  and  persuasive  than  the 
nocturne  of  the  nightingale,  is  the  only  question  in 
my  mind  about  the  relative  merits  of  the  two  song- 
sters. Bring  our  birds  together  as  they  are  brought 
together  in  England,  let  all  our  shy  wood-birds  —  like 
the  hermit  thrush,  the  veery,  the  winter  wren,  the 
wood  wagtail,  the  water  wagtail,  the  many  warblers, 
the  greenlet,  the  solitary  vireo,  etc.  —  become  birds 
of  the  groves  and  orchards,  and  there  would  be  a 
burst  of  song  indeed. 

Bates,  the  naturalist  of  the  Amazons,  speaks  of  a 
little  thrush  he  used  to  hear  in  his  rambles,  that 
showed  the  American  quality  to  which  I  have  re- 
ferred. "  It  is  a  much  smaller  and  plainer-colored 
bird,"  he  says,  "  than  our  [the  English]  thrush,  and 


ENGLISH   AND  AMERICAN   SONG-BIRDS.       139 


its  song  is  not  so  loud,  varied,  or  so  long  sustained ; 
here  the  tone  is  of  a  sweet  and  plaintive  quality, 
which  harmonizes  well  with  the  wild  and  silent  wood- 
lands, where  alone  it  is  heard  in  the  mornings  and 
evenings  of  sultry  tropical  days." 

I  append  parallel  lists  of  the  better-known  Ameri- 
can and  English  song-birds,  marking  in  each,  with  an 
asterisk,  those  that  are  probably  the  better  songsters  ; 
followed  by  a  list  of  other  American  songsters,  some 
of  which  are  not  represented  in  the  British  avifauna : 


Old  England. 

*  Wood-lark. 
Song-thrush. 

*  Jenny  Wren. 
Willow  wren. 

*  Red-breast. 

*  Redstart. 
Hedge  sparrow. 
Yellow-hammer. 

*  Sky-lark. 
Swallow. 

*  Blackcap. 
Titlark. 

*  Blackbird. 
White-throat. 
Goldfinch. 
Green  finch. 
Reed-sparrow. 
Linnet. 

*  Chaffinch. 

*  Nightingale. 
Missal  thrush. 
Great  titmouse. 
Bulfinch. 


New  England. 
Meadow-lark. 

*  Wood-thrush. 
House-wren. 

*  Winter  wren. 
Bluebird. 
Redstart. 

*  Song-sparrow. 

*  Fox-sparrow. 
Bobolink. 
Swallow. 
Wood  wagtail. 

Titlark  (spring  and  fall). 
Robin. 

*  Maryland  yellow-throat. 
Goldfinch. 

*  Wood-sparrow. 

*  Vesper  sparrow. 

*  Purple  finch. 
Indigo-bird. 
Water  wagtail. 

*  Hermit  thrush. 
Savanna  sparrow. 
Chickadee. 


140       ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SONG-BIRDS. 

New  England  song-birds  not  included  in  the  above 
are : 

Red-eyed  vireo.  Orchard  oriole. 

White-eyed  vireo.  Cat-bird. 

Brotherly  love  vireo.  Brown  thrasher. 

Solitary  vireo.  Chewink. 

Blue-headed  vireo.  Rose-breasted  grosbeak. 

Scarlet  tanager.  Purple  martin. 

Baltimore  oriole.  Mocking-bird  (occasionally). 

Besides  these  a  dozen  or  more  species  of  the  sylvi- 
colidte,  or  wood-warblers,  might  be  named,  some  of 
which,  like  the  black-throated  green  warbler,  the 
speckled  Canada  warbler,  the  hooded  warbler,  the 
mourning  ground-warbler,  and  the  yellow  warbler, 
are  fine  songsters. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SOME  ENGLISH 
BIRDS. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS. 

THE  foregoing  chapter  was  written  previous  to  my 
last  visit  to  England,  and  when  my  knowledge  of  the 
British  song-birds  was  mainly  from  report  and  not 
from  personal  observation.  I  had  heard  the  sky-lark, 
and  briefly  the  robin,  and  snatches  of  a  few  other 
bird  strains,  while  in  that  country  in  the  autumn  of 
1871,  but  of  the  full  spring  and  summer  chorus,  and 
the  merits  of  the  individual  songsters,  I  knew  little 
except  through  such  writers  as  White,  Broderip,  and 
Barrington.  Hence,  when  I  found  myself  upon  Brit- 
ish soil  once  more,  and  the  birds  in  the  height  of 
their  May  jubilee,  I  improved  my  opportunities,  and 
had  very  soon  traced  every  note  home.  It  is  not  a 
long  and  difficult  lesson  ;  there  is  not  a  great  variety 
of  birds,  and  they  do  not  hide  in  woods  and  remote 
corners.  You  find  them  nearly  all  wherever  your 
walk  leads  you.  And  how  they  do  sing !  how  loud 
and  piercing  their  notes  are !  Not  a  little  of  the 
pleasure  I  felt  arose  from  the  fact  that  the  birds  sang 
much  as  I  expected  them  to,  much  as  they  ought  to 
have  sung  according  to  my  previous  views  of  their 
merits  and  qualities,  when  contrasted  with  our  own 
songsters. 


144      IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH  BIRDS. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  how  my  ears  were  beset  that 
bright  May  morning,  two  days  after  my  arrival  at 
Glasgow,  when  I  walked  from  Ayr  to  Alloway,  a 
course  of  three  miles  in  one  of  the  most  charming  and 
fertile  rural  districts  in  Scotland.  It  was  as  warm 
as  mid-June,  and  the  country  had  the  most  leafy  and 
luxuriant  June  aspect.  Above  a  broad  stretch  of  un- 
dulating meadow-land  on  my  right  the  larks  were  in 
full  song.  These  I  knew ;  these  I  welcomed.  What 
a  sound  up  there,  as  if  the  sunshine  was  vocal !  A 
little  farther  along,  in  a  clover  field,  I  heard  my  first 
corn-crake.  "  Crex,  crex,  crex,"  came  the  harsh 
note  out  of  the  grass,  like  the  rasping  sound  of  some 
large  insect,  and  I  knew  the  bird  at  once.  But  when 
I  came  to  a  beautiful  grove  or  wood,  jealously 
guarded  by  a  wall  twelve  feet  high  (some  fine  house 
concealed  back  there,  I  saw  by  the  entrance),  what  a 
throng  of  strange  songs  and  calls  beset  my  ears ! 
The  concert  was  at  its  height.  The  wood  fairly  rang 
and  reverberated  with  bird  voices.  How  loud,  how 
vivacious,  almost  clamorous,  they  sounded  to  me  !  I 
paused  in  delightful  bewilderment. 

Two  or  three  species  of  birds,  as  I  afterwards 
found,  were  probably  making  all  the  music  I  heard, 
and  of  these,  one  species  was  contributing  at  least 
two-thirds  of  it.  At  Alloway  I  tarried  nearly  a 
week,  putting  up  at  a  neat  little  inn 

"  Where  Doon  rins,  wimplin',  clear," 
and  I  was  not  long  in  analyzing  this  spirited  bird 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH  BIRDS.      145 

choir,  and  tracing  each  note  home  to  its  proper 
source.  It  was,  indeed,  a  burst  of  song,  as  the  Duke 
of  Argyll  had  said,  but  the  principal  singer  his  Grace 
does  not  mention.  Indeed,  nothing  I  had  read,  or 
could  find  in  the  few  popular  treatises  on  British  or- 
nithology I  carried  about  with  me,  had  given  me  any 
inkling  of  which  was  the  most  abundant  and  vocifer- 
ous English  song-bird,  any  more  than  what  I  had 
read  or  heard  had  given  me  any  idea  of  which  was 
the  most  striking  and  conspicuous  wild -flower  or 
which  the  most  universal  weed.  Now  the  most  abun- 
dant song-bird  in  Britain  is  the  chaffinch ;  the  most 
conspicuous  wild  -  flower  (at  least  in  those  parts  of 
the  country  I  saw)  is  the  foxglove,  and  the  most 
ubiquitous  weed  is  the  nettle.  Throughout  the  month 
of  May,  and  probably  during  all  the  spring  months, 
the  chaffinch  makes  two-thirds  of  the  music  that 
ordinarily  greets  the  ear  as  one  walks  or  drives  about 
the  country.  In  both  England  and  Scotland,  in  my 
walks  up  to  the  time  of  my  departure,  the  last  of 
July,  I  seemed  to  see  three  chaffinches  to  one  of 
any  other  species  of  bird.  It  is  a  permanent  resi- 
dent in  this  island,  and  in  winter  appears  in  immense 
flocks.  The  male  is  the  prettiest  of  British  song- 
birds, with  its  soft  blue-gray  back,  barred  wings,  and 
pink  breast  and  sides.  The  Scotch  call  it  shilfa. 
At  Alloway  there  was  a  shilfa  for  every  tree,  and  its 
hurried  and  incessant  notes  met  and  intersected  each 
other  from  all  directions  every  moment  of  the  day, 
like  wavelets  on  a  summer  pool.  So  many  birds, 


146      IMPRESSIONS  OF   SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS. 

and  each  one  so  persistent  and  vociferous,  accounts 
for  their  part  in  the  choir.  The  song  is  as  loud  as 
that  of  our  orchard  starling,  and  is  even  more  ani- 
mated. It  begins  with  a  rapid,  wren-like  trill,  which 
quickly  becomes  a  sharp  jingle,  then  slides  into  a 
warble,  and  ends  with  an  abrupt  flourish.  I  have 
never  heard  a  song  that  began  so  liltingly  end  with 
such  a  quick,  abrupt  emphasis.  The  last  note  often 
sounds  like  "  whittier,"  uttered  with  great  sharpness ; 
but  one  that  used  to  sing  in  an  apple-tree  over  my 
head,  day  after  day  there  by  the  Doon,  finished  its 
strain  each  time  with  the  sharp  ejaculation,  "  Sister, 
right  here.'*  Afterwards,  whenever  I  met  a  shilfa,  I 
could  hear  in  its  concluding  note  this  pointed  and  al- 
most impatient  exclamation  of  "  Sister,  right  here." 
The  song,  on  the  whole,  is  a  pleasing  one,  and  very 
characteristic ;  so  rapid,  incessant,  and  loud.  The 
bird  seemed  to  be  held  in  much  less  esteem  in  Britain 
than  on  the  Continent,  where  it  is  much  sought  after 
as  a  caged  bird.  In  Germany,  in  the  forest  of  Thu- 
ringia,  the  bird  is  in  such  quest  that  scarcely  can  one 
be  heard.  A  common  workman  has  been  known  to 
give  his  cow  for  a  favorite  songster.  The  chaffinch 
has  far  less  melody  and  charm  of  song  than  some  of 
our  finches,  notably  our  purple  finch  ;  but  it  is  so 
abundant  and  so  persistent  in  song  that  in  quantity 
of  music  it  far  excels  any  singer  we  have. 

Next  to  the  chaffinch  in  the  volume  of  its  song, 
and  perhaps  in  some  localities  surpassing  it,  is  the 
song-thrush.  I  did  not  find  this  bird  upon  the  Doon, 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS.      147 

and  but  rarely  in  other  places  in  Scotland,  but  in  the 
south  of  England  it  leads  the  choir.  Its  voice  can 
be  heard  above  all  others.  But  one  would  never 
suspect  it  to  be  a  thrush.  It  has  none  of  the  flute- 
like  melody  and  serene,  devotional  quality  of  our 
thrush  strains.  It  is  a  shrill  whistling  polyglot.  Its 
song  is  much  after  the  manner  of  that  of  our  brown 
thrasher,  made  up  of  vocal  attitudes  and  poses.  It 
is  easy  to  translate  its  strain  into  various  words  or 
short  ejaculatory  sentences.  It  sings  till  the  dark- 
ness begins  to  deepen,  and  I  could  fancy  what  the 
young  couple  walking  in  the  gloaming  would  hear 
from  the  trees  overhead.  "  Kiss  her,  kiss  her ;  do  it, 
do  it;  be  quick,  be  quick;  stick  her  to  it,  stick  her 
to  it ;  that  was  neat,  that  was  neat ;  that  will  do," 
with  many  other  calls  not  so  explicit,  and  that  might 
sometimes  be  construed  as  approving  nods  or  winks. 
Sometimes  it  has  a  staccato  whistle.  Its  performance 
is  always  animated,  loud,  and  clear,  but  never,  to  my 
ear,  melodious,  as  the  poets  so  often  have  it.  Even 
Burns  says,  — 

"  The  mavis  mild  and  mellow." 

Drayton  hits  it  when  he  says,  — 

"The  throstle  with  shrill  sharps,"  etc. 

Ben  Jonson's  "  lusty  throstle  "  is  still  better.  It  is  a 
song  of  great  strength  and  unbounded  good  cheer ; 
it  proceeds  from  a  sound  heart  and  a  merry  throat. 
There  is  no  touch  of  plaintiveness  or  melancholy  in 
it ;  it  is  as  expressive  of  health  and  good  digestion  as 
10 


148      IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH   BIRDS. 

the  crowing  of  the  cock  in  the  morning.  When  I 
was  hunting  for  the  nightingale,  the  thrush  frequently 
made  such  a  din  just  at  dusk  as  to  be  a  great  annoy- 
ance. At  Kew,  where  I  passed  a  few  weeks,  its 
shrill  pipe  usually  woke  me  in  the  morning. 

A  thrush  of  a  much  mellower  strain  is  the  black- 
bird, which  is  our  robin  cut  in  ebony.  His  golden 
bill  gives  a  golden  touch  to  his  song.  It  was  the 
most  leisurely  strain  I  heard.  Amid  the  loud,  viva- 
cious, workaday  chorus  it  had  an  easeful  dolce  far 
niente  effect.  I  place  the  song  before  that  of  our 
robin,  where  it  belongs  in  quality,  but  it  falls  short 
in  some  other  respects.  It  constantly  seemed  to  me 
as  if  the  bird  was  a  learner  and  had  not  yet  mastered 
his  art.  The  tone  is  fine,  but  the  execution  is  la- 
bored ;  the  musician  does  not  handle  his  instrument 
with  deftness  and  confidence.  It  seems  as  if  the  bird 
was  trying  to  whistle  some  simple  air,  and  never 
quite  succeeding.  Parts  of  the  song  are  languid  and 
feeble,  and  the  whole  strain  is  wanting  in  the  decision 
and  easy  fulfillment  of  our  robin's  song.  The  bird  is 
noisy  and  tuneful  in  the  twilight,  the  same  as  his 
American  congener. 

Such  British  writers  on  birds  and  bird  life  as  I 
have  been  able  to  consult  do  not,  it  seems  to  me, 
properly  discriminate  and  appreciate  the  qualities  and 
merits  of  their  own  songsters.  The  most  melodious 
strain  I  heard,  and  the  only  one  that  exhibited  to  the 
full  the  best  qualities  of  the  American  songsters,  pro- 
ceeded from  a  bird  quite  unknown  to  fame,  in  the 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME  ENGLISH   BIRDS.      149 

British  Islands  at  least.  I  refer  to  the  willow  war- 
bler, or  willow  wren,  as  it  is  also  called,  a  little 
brown  bird,  that  builds  a  dome-shaped  nest  upon  the 
ground  and  lines  it  with  feathers.  White  says  it  has 
a  "  sweet,  plaintive  note,"  which  is  but  half  the 
truth.  It  has  a  long,  tender,  delicious  warble,  not 
wanting  in  strength  and  volume,  but  eminently  pure 
and  sweet,  —  the  song  of  the  chaffinch  refined  and 
idealized.  The  famous  blackcap,  which  I  heard  in 
the  south  of  England,  and  again  in  France,  falls  far 
short  of  it  in  these  respects,  and  only  surpasses  it  in 
strength  and  brilliancy.  The  song  is,  perhaps,  in  the 
minor  key,  feminine  and  not  masculine,  but  it  touches 

the  heart. 

"  That  strain  again ;  it  had  a  dying  fall." 

The  song  of  the  willow  warbler  has  a  dying  fall ;  no 
other  bird  song  is  so  touching  in  this  respect.  It 
mounts  up  round  and  full,  then  runs  down  the  scale, 
and  expires  upon  the  air  in  a  gentle  murmur.  I 
heard  the  bird  everywhere  ;  next  to  the  chaffinch  its 
voice  greeted  my  ear  oftenest ;  yet  many  country 
people  of  whom  I  inquired  did  not  know  the  bird,  or 
confounded  it  with  some  other.  It  is  too  fine  a  song 
for  the  ordinary  English  ear;  there  is  not  noise 
enough  in  it.  The  white-throat  is  much  more  fa- 
mous ;  it  has  a  louder,  coarser  voice  ;  it  sings  with 
great  emphasis  and  assurance,  and  is  a  much  better 
John  Bull  than  the  little  willow  warbler. 

I  could  well  understand,  after  being  in  England  a 
few  days,  why,  to  English  travelers,  our  songsters 


150      IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH  BIRDS. 

seem  inferior  to  their  own.  They  are  much  less  loud 
and  vociferous,  less  abundant  and  familiar ;  one  needs 
to  woo  them  more ;  they  are  less  recently  out  of  the 
wilderness  ;  their  songs  have  the  delicacy  and  wild- 
ness  of  most  woodsy  forms,  and  are  as  plaintive  as 
the  whistle  of  the  wind.  They  are  not  so  happy  a 
race  as  the  English  songsters,  as  if  life  had  more  tri- 
als for  them,  as  doubtless  it  has  in  their  enforced 
migrations  and  in  the  severer  climate  with  which 
they  have  to  contend. 

When  one  hears  the  European  cuckoo  he  regrets 
that  he  has  ever  heard  a  cuckoo  clock.  The  clock 
has  stolen  the  bird's  thunder ;  and  when  you  hear 
the  rightful  owner,  the  note  has  a  second-hand,  artifi- 
cial sound.  It  is  only  another  cuckoo  clock  off  there 
on  the  hill  or  in  the  grove.  Yet  it  is  a  cheerful  call, 
with  none  of  the  solitary  and  monkish  character  of 
our  cuckoo's  note ;  and,  as  it  comes  early  in  spring,  I 
can  see  how  much  it  must  mean  to  native  ears. 

I  found  that  the  only  British  song-bird  I  had  done 
injustice  to  in  my  previous  estimate  was  the  wren. 
It  is  far  superior  to  our  house-wren.  It  approaches 
very  nearly  our  winter  wren,  if  it  does  not  equal  it. 
Without  hearing  the  two  birds  together  it  would  be 
impossible  to  decide  which  was  the  better  songster. 
Its  strain  has  the  same  gushing,  lyrical  character,  and 
the  shape,  color,  and  manner  of  the  two  birds  are 
nearly  identical.  It  is  very  common,  sings  every- 
where, and  therefore  contributes  much  more  to  the 
general  entertainment  than  does  our  bird.  Barring- 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS.      151 

ton  marks  the  wren  far  too  low  in  his  table  of  the 
comparative  merit  of  British  song-birds ;  he  denies  it 
mellowness  and  plaintiveness,  and  makes  it  high  only 
in  sprightliness,  a  fact  that  discredits  his  whole  table. 
He  makes  the  thrush  and  blackbird  equal  in  the  two 
qualities  first  named,  which  is  equally  wide  of  the 
mark. 

The  English  robin  is  a  better  songster  than  I  ex- 
pected to  find  him.  The  poets  and  writers  have  not 
done  him  justice.  He  is  of  the  royal  line  of  the 
nightingale,  and  inherits  some  of  the  qualities  of  that 
famous  bird.  His  favorite  hour  for  singing  is  the 
gloaming,  and  I  used  to  hear  him  the  last  of  all. 
His  song  is  peculiar,  jerky,  and  spasmodic,  but  abounds 
in  the  purest  and  most  piercing  tones  to  be  heard,  — 
piercing  from  their  smoothness,  intensity,  and  full- 
ness of  articulation  ;  rapid  and  crowded  at  one  mo- 
ment, as  if  some  barrier  had  suddenly  given  way,  then 
as  suddenly  pausing,  and  scintillating  ut  intervals, 
bright,  tapering  shafts  of  sound.  It  stops  and  hesi- 
tates, and  blurts  out  its  notes  like  a  stammerer  ;  but 
when  they  do  come  they  are  marvelously  clear  and 
pure.  I  have  heard  green  hickory  branches  thrown 
into  a  fierce  blaze  jet  out  the  same  fine,  intense,  mu- 
sical sounds  on  the  escape  of  the  imprisoned  vapors 
in  the  hard  wood  as  characterize  the  robin's  song. 

One  misses  along  English  fields  and  highways  the 
tender  music  furnished  at  home  by  our  sparrows,  and 
in  the  woods  and  groves  the  plaintive  cries  of  our 
pewees  and  the  cheerful  soliloquy  of  our  red-eyed 


152      IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS. 

vireo.  The  English  sparrows  and  buntings  are 
harsh-voiced,  and  their  songs,  when  they  have  songs, 
are  crude.  The  yellowhammer  comes  nearest  to  our 
typical  sparrow ;  it  is  very  common,  and  is  a  persist- 
ent songster,  but  the  song  is  slight,  like  that  of  our 
savanna  sparrow  —  scarcely  more  than  the  chirping 
of  a  grasshopper.  In  form  and  color  it  is  much  like 
our  vesper  sparrow,  except  that  the  head  of  the  male 
has  a  light  yellow  tinge. 

The  green  finch  or  linnet  is  an  abundant  bird  ev- 
erywhere, but  its  song  is  less  pleasing  than  that  of 
several  of  our  finches.  The  goldfinch  is  very  rare, 
mainly,  perhaps,  because  it  is  so  persistently  trapped 
by  bird-fanciers ;  its  song  is  a  series  of  twitters  and 
chirps,  less  musical  to  my  ear  than  that  of  our  gold- 
finch, especially  when  a  flock  of  the  latter  are  con- 
gregated in  a  tree  and  inflating  their  throats  in 
rivalry.  Their  golden-crowned  kinglet  has  a  fine 
thread-like  song,  far  less  than  that  of  our  kinglet, 
less  even  than  that  of  our  black  and  white  creeper. 
The  nuthatch  has  not  the  soft,  clear  calf  of  ours,  and 
the  various  woodpeckers  figure  much  less ;  there  is 
less  wood  to  peck,  and  they  seem  a  more  shy  and 
silent  race.  I  saw  but  one  in  all  my  walks,  and  that 
was  near  Wolmer  Forest.  I  looked  in  vain  for  the 
wood-lark  ;  the  country  people  confound  it  with  the 
pipit.  The  blackcap  warbler  I  found  to  be  a  rare 
and  much  over-praised  bird.  The  nightingale  is  very 
restricted  in  its  range,  and  is  nearly  silent  by  the 
middle  of  June.  I  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  find  it 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS.      153 

in  full  song  after  the  seventeenth  of  the  month,  as 
I  have  described  in  a  previous  chapter,  but  failed. 
And  the  garden  warbler  is  by  no  means  found  in 
every  garden ;  probably  I  did  not  hear  it  more  than 
twice. 

The  common  sandpiper,  I  should  say,  was  more 
loquacious  and  musical  than  ours.  I  heard  it  on  tho 
Highland  lakes,  when  its  happy  notes  did  indeed  al- 
most run  into  a  song,  so  continuous  and  bright  and 
joyful  were  they. 

One  of  the  first  birds  I  saw,  and  one  of  the  most 
puzzling,  was  the  lapwing  or  pewit.  I  observed  it 
from  the  car  window,  on  my  way  down  to  Ayr,  a 
large,  broad-winged,  awkward  sort  of  bird,  like  a 
cross  between  a  hawk  and  an  owl,  swooping  and  gam- 
boling in  the  air  as  the  train  darted  past.  It  is  very 
abundant  in  Scotland,  especially  on  the  moors  and 
near  the  coast.  In  the  Highlands  I  saw  them  from 
the  top  of  the  stage  coach,  running  about  the  fields 
with  their  young.  The  most  graceful  and  pleasing  of 
birds  upon  the  ground,  about  the  size  of  the  pigeon, 
now  running  nimbly  along,  now  pausing  to  regard 
you  intently,  crested,  ringed,  white-bellied,  glossy 
green-backed,  with  every  movement  like  visible  mu- 
sic. But  the  moment  it  launches  into  the  air  its 
beauty  is  gone  ;  the  wings  look  round  and  clumsy, 
like  a  mittened  hand,  the  tail  very  short,  the  head 
and  neck  drawn  back,  with  nothing  in  the  form  or 
movement  that  suggests  the  plover  kind.  It  gambols 
and  disports  itself  like  a  great  bat,  which  its  outlines 


154     IMPRESSIONS  OF  SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS. 

suggest.     On  the  moors  I  also  saw  the  curlew,  and 
shall  never  forget  its  wild,  musical  call. 

Nearly  all  the  British  bird-voices  have  more  of  a 
burr  in  them  than  ours  have.  Can  it  be  that,  like 
the  people,  they  speak  more  from  the  throat  ?  It  is 
especially  noticeable  in  the  crow  tribe  —  in  the  rook, 
the  jay,  the  jackdaw.  The  common  crow,  or  rook, 
has  a  hoarse,  thick  caw  —  not  so  clearly  and  roundly 
uttered  as  that  of  our  crow.  The  swift  has  a  wheezy, 
catarrhal  squeak,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  cheery 
chipper  of  our  swift.  In  Europe  the  chimney-swal- 
low builds  in  barns,  and  the  barn-swallow  builds  in 
chimneys.  The  barn-swallow,  as  we  would  call  it— - 
chimney-swallow,  as  it  is  called  there  —  is  much  the 
same  in  voice,  color,  form,  flight,  etc.,  as  our  bird, 
while  the  swift  is  much  larger  than  our  chimney- 
swallow  and  has  a  forked  tail.  The  martlet,  answer- 
ing to  our  cliff-swallow,  is  not  so  strong  and  ruddy  a 
looking  bird  as  our  species,  but  it  builds  much  the 
same  and  has  a  similar  note.  It  is  more  plentiful 
than  our  swallow.  I  was  soon  struck  with  the  fact 
that  in  the  main  the  British  song-birds  lead  up  to 
and  culminate  in  two  species,  namely  in  the  lark  and 
the  nightingale.  In  these  two  birds  all  that  is  char- 
acteristic in  the  other  songsters  is  gathered  up  and 
carried  to  perfection.  They  crown  the  series.  Nearly 
all  the  finches  and  pipits  seem  like  rude  studies  and 
sketches  of  the  sky-lark,  and  nearly  all  the  warblers 
and  thrushes  point  to  the  nightingale ;  their  powers 
have  fully  blossomed  in  her.  There  is  nothing  in 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME  ENGLISH  BIRDS.      155 

the  lark's  song,  in  the  quality  or  in  the  manner  of  it, 
that  is  not  sketched  or  suggested  in  some  voice  lower 
in  the  choir,  and  the  tone  and  compass  of  the  war- 
blers mounts  in  regular  gradation  from  the  clinking 
note  of  the  chiffchaff  up  to  the  nightingale.  Several 
of  the  warblers  sing  at  night,  and  several  of  the  con- 
stituents of  the  lark  sing  on  the  wing.  On  the  lark's 
side,  the  birds  are  remarkable  for  gladness  and  ec- 
stacy,  and  are  more  creatures  of  the  light  and  of  the 
open  spaces ;  on  the  side  of  the  nightingale  there  is 
more  pure  melody  and  more  a  love  for  the  twilight 
and  the  privacy  of  arboreal  life.  Both  the  famous 
songsters  are  representative  as  to  color,  exhibiting 
the  prevailing  gray  and  dark  tints.  A  large  number 
of  birds,  I  noticed,  had  the  two  white  quills  in  the 
tail  characteristic  of  the  lark. 

I  found  that  I  had  over-estimated  the  bird-music 
to  be  heard  in  England  in  midsummer.  It  appeared 
to  be  much  less  than  our  own.  The  last  two  or  three 
weeks  of  July  were  very  silent ;  the  only  bird  I  was 
sure  of  hearing  in  my  walks  was  the  yellowhammer ; 
while,  on  returning  home  early  in  August,  the  birds 
made  such  music  about  my  house  that  they  woke  me 
up  in  the  morning.  The  song-sparrow  and  bush- 
sparrow  were  noticeable  till  in  September,  and  the 
red-eyed  vireo  and  warbling  vireo  were  heard  daily 
till  in  October. 

On  the  whole  I  may  add  that  I  did  not  anywhere 
in  England  hear  so  fine  a  burst  of  bird-song  as  I  have 
heard  at  home,  and  I  listened  long  for  it  and  atten- 


156      IMPRESSIONS   OF   SOME   ENGLISH   BIRDS. 

tively.  Not  so  fine  in  quality,  though  perhaps  greater 
in  quantity.  It  sometimes  happens  that  several  spe- 
cies of  our  best  songsters  pass  the  season  in  the  same 
locality,  some  favorite  spot  in  the  woods,  or  at  the 
head  of  a  sheltered  valley,  that  possesses  attraction 
for  many  kinds.  I  found  such  a  place  one  summer 
by  a  small  mountain  lake,  in  the  southern  Catskills, 
just  over  the  farm  borders,  in  the  edge  of  the  prim- 
itive forest.  The  lake  was  surrounded  by  an  am- 
phitheatre of  wooded  steeps,  except  a  short  space  on 
one  side  where  there  was  an  old  abandoned  clearing, 
grown  up  to  saplings  and  brush.  Birds  love  to  be 
near  water,  and  I  think  they  like  a  good  auditorium, 
love  an  open  space  like  that  of  a  small  lake  in  the 
woods,  where  their  voices  can  have  room  and  their 
songs  reverberate.  Certain  it  is  they  liked  this  place, 
and  early  in  the  morning  especially,  say  from  half 
past  three  to  half  past  four,  there  was  such  a  burst 
of  melody  as  I  have  never  before  heard.  The  most 
prominent  voices  were  those  of  the  wood -thrush, 
veery  thrush,  rose-breasted  grosbeak,  winter  wren, 
and  one  of  the  vireos,  and  occasionally  at  evening 
that  of  the  hermit,  though  far  off  in  the  dusky  back- 
ground ;  birds  all  notable  for  their  pure  melody,  ex- 
cept that  of  the  vireo,  which  was  cheery,  rather  than 
melodious.  A  singular  song  that  of  this  particular 
vireo :  "  Cheery,  cheery,  cheery  drunk !  Cheery 
drunk  I  "  —  all  day  long  in  the  trees  above  our  tent. 
The  wood -thrush  was  the  most  abundant,  and  the 
purity  and  eloquence  of  its  strain,  or  of  their  mingled 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  SOME  ENG 

strains  heard  in  the  cool  dewy  morning  from  across 
that  translucent  sheet  of  water,  was  indeed  memor- 
able. Its  liquid  and  serene  melody  was  in  such  per- 
fect keeping  with  the  scene.  The  eye  and  the  ear 
both  reported  the  same  beauty  and  harmony.  Then 
the  clear  rich  fife  of  the  grosbeak  from  the  top  of  the 
tallest  trees,  the  simple  flute-like  note  of  the  veery, 
and  the  sweetly  ringing,  wildly  lyrical  outburst  of  the 
winter  wren,  sometimes  from  the  roof  of  our  butter- 
nut-colored tent  —  all  joining  with  it  —  formed  one 
of  the  most  noteworthy  bits  of  a  bird  symphony  it  has 
ever  been  my  good  luck  to  hear.  Often  at  sun-down, 
too,  while  we  sat  idly  in  our  boat,  watching  the  trout 
break  the  glassy  surface  here  and  there,  the  same 
soothing  melody  would  be  poured  out  all  around  us 
and  kept  up  till  darkness  filled  the  woods.  The  last 
note  would  be  that  of  the  wood-thrush,  calling  out 
"  quit"  "  quit"  Across  there  in  a  particular  point, 
I  used  at  night  to  hear  another  thrush,  the  olive- 
backed,  the  song  a  slight  variation  of  the  veery's.  I 
did  hear  in  England  in  the  twilight,  the  robin,  black- 
bird and  song -thrush  unite  their  voices,  producing 
a  loud,  pleasing  chorus ;  add  the  nightingale  and 
you  have  great  volume  and  power,  but  still  the  pure 
melody  of  my  songsters  by  the  lake  is  probably  not 
reached. 


IN  WORDSWORTH'S   COUNTRY. 


IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY. 

No  other  English  poet  had  touched  me  quite  so 
closely  as  Wordsworth.  All  cultivated  men  delight 
in  Shakespeare ;  he  is  the  universal  genius ;  but 
Wordsworth's  poetry  has  more  the  character  of  a 
message,  and  a  message  special  and  personal,  to  a 
comparatively  small  circle  of  readers.  He  stands 
for  a  particular  phase  of  human  thought  and  experi- 
ence, and  his  service  to  certain  minds  is  like  an  ini- 
tiation into  a  new  order  of  truths.  Note  what  a  rev- 
elation he  was  to  the  logical  mind  of  John  Stuart 
Mill.  His  limitations  make  him  all  the  more  private 
and  precious,  like  the  seclusion  of  one  of  his  moun- 
tain dales.  He  is  not  and  can  never  be  the  world's 
poet,  but  more  especially  the  poet  of  those  who  love 
solitude  and  solitary  communion  with  nature.  Shake- 
speare's attitude  toward  nature  is  for  the  most  part 
like  that  of  a  gay,  careless  reveler,  who  leaves  his 
companions  for  a  moment  to  pluck  a  flower  or  gather 
a  shell  here  and  there,  as  they  stroll 

"  By  paved  fountain,  or  by  rushy  brook, 
Or  on  the  beached  margent  of  the  sea." 

He  is,  of   course,  preeminent  in  all   purely  poetic 
achievements,  but  his  poems  can  never  minister  to 
the  spirit  in  the  way  Wordsworth's  do. 
11 


162  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY. 

One  can  hardly  appreciate  the  extent  to  which  the 
latter  poet  has  absorbed  and  reproduced  the  spirit  of 
the  Westmoreland  scenery  until  he  has  visited  that 
region.  I  paused  there  a  few  days  in  early  June,  on 
my  way  south,  and  again  on  my  return  late  in  July. 
I  walked  up  from  Windermere  to  Grasmere,  where, 
on  the  second  visit,  I  took  up  my  abode  at  the  his- 
toric Swan  Inn,  where  Scott  used  to  go  surreptitiously 
to  get  his  mug  of  beer  when  he  was  stopping  with 
Wordsworth. 

The  call  of  the  cuckoo  came  to  me  from  over  Ry- 
dal  Water  as  I  passed  along ;  I  plucked  my  first  fox- 
glove by  the  road-side ;  paused  and  listened  to  the 
voice  of  the  mountain  torre^*, ;  heard 

"  The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep  ; " 

caught  many  a  glimpse  of  green,  unpeopled  hills,  urn- 
shaped  dells,  treeless  heights,  rocky  promontories, 
secluded  valleys,  and  clear,  swift-running  streams. 
The  scenery  was  sombre ;  there  were  but  two  colors, 
green  and  brown,  verging  on  black;  wherever  the 
rock  cropped  out  of  the  green  turf  on  the  mountain- 
sides, or  in  the  vale,  it  showed  a  dark  face.  But  the 
tenderness  and  freshness  of  the  green  tints  were 
something  to  remember, —  the  hue  of  the  first  spring- 
ing April  grass,  massed  and  wide -spread  in  mid- 
summer. 

Then  there  was  a  quiet  splendor,  almost  grandeur, 
about  Grasmere  vale,  such  as  I  had  not  seen  else- 
where,—  a  kind  of  monumental  beauty  and  dignity 


IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY.          163 

that  agreed  well  with  one's  conception  of  the  loftier 
strains  of  its  poet.  It  is  not  too  much  dominated  by 
the  mountains,  though  shut  in  on  all  sides  by  them ; 
that  stately  level  floor  of  the  valley  keeps  them  back 
and  defines  them,  and  they  rise  from  its  outer  margin 
like  rugged,  green-tufted,  and  green-draped  walls. 

It  is  doubtless  this  feature,  as  De  Quincey  says, 
this  plane-like  character  of  the  valley,  that  makes 
the  scenery  of  the  Grasmere  more  impressive  than 
the  scenery  in  North  Wales,  where  the  physiognomy 
of  the  mountains  is  essentially  the  same,  but  where 
the  valleys  are  more  bowl-shaped.  Amid  so  much 
that  is  steep  and  rugged  and  broken,  the  eye  delights 
in  the  repose  and  equilibrium  of  horizontal  lines, —  a 
bit  of  table-land,  the  surface  of  the  lake,  or  the  level 
of  the  valley  bottom.  The  principal  valleys  of  our 
own  Catskill  region  all  have  this  stately  floor,  so  char- 
acteristic of  Wordsworth's  country.  It  was  a  pleas- 
ure which  I  daily  indulged  in  to  stand  on  the  bridge 
by  Grasmere  Church,  with  that  full,  limpid  stream 
before  me,  pausing  and  deepening  under  the  stone 
embankment  near  where  the  dust  of  the  poet  lies, 
and  let  the  eye  sweep  across  the  plane  to  the  foot  of 
the  near  mountains,  or  dwell  upon  their  encircling 
summits  above  the  tops  of  the  trees  and  the  roofs  of 
the  village.  The  water-ouzel  loved  to  linger  there 
too,  and  would  sit  in  contemplative  mood  on  the 
stones  around  which  the  water  loitered  and  mur- 
mured, its  clear  white  breast  alone  defining  it  from 
the  object  upon  which  it  rested.  Then  it  would  trip 


164  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY. 

along  the  margin  of  the  pool,  or  flit  a  few  feet  over 
its  surface,  and  suddenly,  as  if  it  had  burst  like  a 
bubble,  vanish  before  my  eyes ;  there  would  be  a 
little  splash  of  the  water  beneath  where  I  saw  it,  as 
if  the  drop  of  which  it  was  composed  had  reunited 
with  the  surface  there.  Then,  in  a  moment  or  two, 
it  would  emerge  from  the  water  and  take  up  its  stand 
as  dry  and  unruffled  as  ever.  It  was  always  amusing 
to  see  this  plump  little  bird,  so  unlike  a  water-fowl  in 
shape  and  manner,  disappear  in  the  stream.  It  did 
not  seem  to  dive,  but  simply  dropped  into  the  water, 
as  if  its  wings  had  suddenly  failed  it.  Sometimes  it 
fairly  tumbled  in  from  its  perch.  It  was  gone  from 
sight  in  a  twinkling,  and  while  you  were  wondering 
how  it  could  accomplish  the  feat  of  walking  on  the 
bottom  of  the  stream  under  there,  it  reappeared  as 
unconcerned  as  possible.  It  is  a  song-bird,  a  thrush, 
and  gives  a  feature  to  these  mountain  streams  and 
water-falls,  which  ours,  except  on  the  Pacific  coast, 
entirely  lack.  The  stream  that  winds  through  Gras- 
mere  vale,  and  flows  against  the  embankment  of  the 
church-yard,  as  the  Avon  at  Stratford,  is  of  great 
beauty  —  clean,  bright,  full,  trouty,  with  just  a  tinge 
of  gypsy  blood  in  its  veins,  which  it  gets  from  the 
black  tarns  on  the  mountains,  and  which  adds  to  its 
richness  of  color.  I  saw  an  angler  take  a  few  trout 
from  it,  in  a  meadow  near  the  village.  After  a  heavy 
rain  the  stream  was  not  roily,  but  slightly  darker  in 
hue ;  these  fields  and  mountains  are  so  turf-bound 
that  no  particle  of  soil  is  carried  away  by  the  water. 


165 

Falls  and  cascades  are  a  great  feature  all  through 
this  country,  as  they  are  a  marked  feature  in  Words- 
worth's poetry.  One's  ear  is  everywhere  haunted 
by  the  sound  of  falling  water  ;  and  when  the  ear  can- 
not hear  them,  the  eye  can  see  the  streaks  or  patches 
of  white  foam  down  the  green  declivities.  There  are 
no  trees  above  the  valley  bottom  to  obstruct  the  view, 
and  no  hum  of  woods  to  muffle  the  sounds  of  distant 
streams.  When  I  was  at  Grasmere  there  was  much 
rain,  and  this  stanza  of  the  poet  came  to  mind :  — 

"  Loud  is  the  Vale  !    The  voice  is  up 
With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 
A  mighty  unison  of  streams  ! 
Of  all  her  voices,  one !  " 

The  words  vale  and  dell  come  to  have  a  new  mean- 
ing after  one  has  visited  Wordsworth's  country,  just 
as  the  words  cottage  and  shepherd  also  have  so  much 
more  significance  there  and  in  Scotland  than  at 

home. 

"  Dear  child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail ! 
—  There  is  a  nest  in  a  green  dale, 

A  harbor  and  a  hold, 
Where  thou,  a  wife  and  friend,  shalt  see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 
A  light  to  young  and  old." 

Every  humble  dwelling  looks  like  a  nest ;  that  in. 
which  the  poet  himself  lived  had  a  cozy,  nest-like 
look ;  and  every  vale  is  green  —  a  cradle  amid  rocky 
heights,  padded  and  carpeted  with  the  thickest  turf. 

Wordsworth  is  described  as  the  poet  of  nature. 
He  is  more  the  poet  of  man,  deeply  wrought  upon 


166  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY. 

by  a  certain  phase  of  nature, —  the  nature  of  those 
sombre,  quiet,  green,  far-reaching  mountain  solitudes. 
There  is  a  shepherd  quality  about  him  ;  he  loves  the 
flocks,  the  heights,  the  tarn,  the  tender  herbage,  the 
sheltered  dell,  the  fold,  with  a  kind  of  poetized  shep- 
herd instinct.  Lambs  and  sheep  and  their  haunts, 
and  those  who  tend  them,  recur  perpetually  in  his 
poems.  How  well  his  verse  harmonizes  with  those 
high,  green,  and  gray  solitudes,  where  the  silence  is 
only  broken  by  the  bleat  of  lambs  or  sheep,  or  just 
stirred  by  the  voice  of  distant  water-falls !  Simple, 
elemental,  yet  profoundly  tender  and  human,  he  had 

"the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be." 

He  brooded  upon  nature,  but  it  was  nature  mirrored 
in  his  own  heart.  In  his  poem  of  "  The  Brothers," 
he  says  of  his  hero,  who  had  gone  to  sea :  — 

"Hehadbeenrear'd 

Among  the  mountains,  and  he  in  his  heart 
Was  half  a  shepherd  on  the  stormy  seas. 
Oft  in  the  piping  shrouds  had  Leonard  heard 
The  tones  of  water  falls,  and  inland  sounds 
Of  caves  and  trees ;  " 

and  leaning  over  the  vessel's  side  and  gazing  into 
the  "  broad  green  wave  and  sparkling  foam,"  he 

"  Saw  mountains, —  saw  the  forms  of  sheep  that  grazed 
On  verdant  hills." 

This  was  what  his  own  heart  told  him ;  every  expe- 
rience or  sentiment  called  those  beloved  images  to 
his  own  mind. 


IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY.  167 

One  afternoon,  when  the  sun  seemed  likely  to  get 
the  better  of  the  soft  rain-clouds,  I  set  out  to  climb 
to  the  top  of  Helvellyn.  I  followed  the  highway  a 
mile  or  more  beyond  the  Swan  Inn,  and  then  I  com- 
mitted myself  to  a  foot-path  that  turns  up  the  moun- 
tain-side to  the  right,  and  crosses  into  Grisedale  and 
so  to  Ulleswater.  Two  school-girls  whom  I  over- 
took put  me  on  the  right  track.  The  voice  of  a 
foaming  mountain  torrent  was  in  my  ears  a  long  dis- 
tance, and  now  and  then  the  path  crossed  it.  Fair- 
field  Mountain  was  on  my  right  hand,  Helm  Crag 
and  Dunmail  Raise  on  my  left.  Grasmere  plain 
soon  lay  far  below.  The  hay-makers,  encouraged  by 
a  gleam  of  sunshine,  were  hastily  raking  together  the 
rain-blackened  hay.  From  my  outlook  they  appeared 
to  be  slowly  and  laboriously  rolling  up  a  great  sheet 
of  dark-brown  paper,  uncovering  beneath  it  one  of 
the  most  fresh  and  vivid  green.  The  mown  grass  is 
so  long  in  curing  in  this  country  (frequently  two 
weeks)  that  the  new  blades  spring  beneath  it  and  a 
second  crop  is  well  under  way  before  the  old  is  "  car- 
ried." The  long  mountain  slopes  up  which  I  was 
making  my  way  were  as  verdant  as  the  plain  below 
me.  Large  coarse  ferns  or  bracken,  with  an  under 
lining  of  fine  grass,  covered  the  ground  on  the  lower 
portions.  On  the  higher,  grass  alone  prevailed.  On 
the  top  of  the  divide,  looking  down  into  the  valley  of 
Ulleswater,  I  came  upon  one  of  those  black  tarns  or 
mountain  lakelets  which  are  such  a  feature  in  this 
strange  scenery.  The  word  tarn  has  no  meaning 


168  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY. 

with  us,  though  our  young  poets  sometimes  use  it  as 
they  do  this  Yorkshire  word  wold ;  one  they  get 
from  Wordsworth,  the  other  from  Tennyson.  But 
when  you  have  seen  one  of  those  still,  inky  pools  at 
the  head  of  a  silent,  lonely  Westmoreland  dale,  you 
will  not  be  apt  to  misapply  the  word  in  future.  Sud- 
denly the  serene  shepherd  mountain  opens  this  black, 
gleaming  eye  at  your  feet,  and  it  is  all  the  more 
weird  for  having  no  eyebrow  of  rocks,  or  fringe  of 
rush  or  bush.  The  steep,  encircling  slopes  drop 
down  and  hem  it  about  with  the  most  green  and  uni- 
form turf.  If  its  rim  had  been  modeled  by  human 
hands,  it  could  not  have  been  more  regular  or  gentle 
in  outline.  Beneath  its  emerald  coat  the  soil  is  black 
and  peaty,  which  accounts  for  the  hue  of  the  water 
and  the  dark  line  that  encircles  it. 

"All  round  this  pool  both  flocks  and  herds  might  drink 
On  its  firm  margin,  even  as  from  a  well, 
Or  some  stone  basin,  which  the  herdsman's  hand 
Had  shaped  for  their  refreshment." 

The  path  led  across  the  outlet  of  the  tarn  and  then 
divided,  one  branch  going  down  into  the  head  of 
Grisedale,  and  the  other  mounting  up  the  steep  flank 
of  Helvellyn.  Far  up  the  green  acclivity  I  met  a 
man  and  two  young  women  making  their  way  slowly 
down.  They  had  come  from  Glenridding  on  Ulles- 
water,  and  were  going  to  Grasmere.  The  women 
looked  cold,  and  said  I  would  find  it  wintry  on  the 
summit. 

Helvellyn  has  a  broad  flank  and  a  long  back,  and 


IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY.  169 

comes  to  a  head  very  slowly  and  gently.  You  reach 
a  wire  fence  well  up  on  the  top  that  divides  some 
sheep  ranges,  pass  through  a  gate,  and  have  a  mile 
yet  to  the  highest  ground  in  front  of  you ;  but  you 
could  traverse  it  in  a  buggy,  it  is  so  smooth  and  grassy. 
The  grass  fails  just  before  the  summit  is  reached,  and 
the  ground  is  covered  with  small  fragments  of  the 
decomposed  rock.  The  view  is  impressive,  and  such 
as  one  likes  to  sit  down  to  and  drink  in  slowly  —  a 

"  grand  terraqueous  spectacle, 
From  centre  to  circumference,  unveil' d." 

The  wind  was  moderate  and  not  cold.  Toward  Ulles- 
water  the  mountain  drops  down  abruptly  many  hun- 
dred feet,  but  its  vast  western  slope  appeared  one 
smooth,  unbroken  surface  of  grass.  The  following 
jottings  in  my  note-book,  on  the  spot,  preserve  some 
of  the  features  of  the  scene :  "  All  the  northern 
landscape  lies  in  the  sunlight  as  far  as  Carlisle, 

*  A  tumultuous  waste  of  huge  hill-tops ; ' 

not  quite  so  severe  and  rugged  as  the  Scotch  moun- 
tains, but  the  view  more  pleasing  and  more  extensive 
than  the  one  I  got  from  Ben  Venue.  The  black 
tarns  at  my  feet,  —  Keppel  Cove  Tarn  one  of  them, 
according  to  my  map,  —  how  curious  they  look  !  I 
can  just  discern  the  figure  of  a  man  moving  by  the 
marge  of  one  of  them.  Away  beyond  Ulleswater  is 
a  vast  sweep  of  country  flecked  here  and  there  by 
slowly  moving  cloud  shadows.  To  the  northeast,  in 
places,  the  backs  and  sides  of  the  mountains  have  a 


170  IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY. 

green,  pastoral  voluptuousness,  so  smooth  and  full 
are  they  with  thick  turf.  At  other  points  the  rock 
has  fretted  through  the  verdant  carpet.  St.  Sunday's 
Crag  to  the  west,  across  Grisedale,  is  a  steep  acclivity 
covered  with  small,  loose  stones,  as  if  they  had  been 
dumped  over  the  top,  and  were  slowly  sliding  down ; 
but  nowhere  do  I  see  great  bowlders  strewn  about. 
Patches  of  black  peat  are  here  and  there.  The  little 
rills,  near  and  far,  are  white  as  milk,  so  swiftly  do 
they  run.  On  the  more  precipitous  sides  the  grass 
and  moss  are  lodged,  and  hold  like  snow,  and  are  as 
tender  in  hue  as  the  first  April  blades.  A  multitude 
of  lakes  are  in  view,  and  Morecambe  Bay  to  the 
south.  There  are  sheep  everywhere,  loosely  scat- 
tered, with  their  lambs ;  occasionally  I  hear  them 
bleat.  No  other  sound  is  heard  but  the  chirp  of  the 
mountain  pipit.  I  see  the  wheat-ear  flitting  here  and 
there.  One  mountain  now  lies  in  full  sunshine,  as 
fat  as  a  seal,  wrinkled  and  dimpled  where  it  turns 
to  the  west  like  a  fat  animal  when  it  bends  to  lick 
itself.  What  a  spectacle  is  now  before  me !  —  all 
the  near  mountains  in  shadow,  and  the  distant  in 
strong  sunlight ;  I  shall  not  see  the  like  of  that  again. 
On  some  of  the  mountains  the  green  vestments  are 
in  tatters  and  rags,  so  to  speak,  and  barely  cling  to 
them.  No  heather  in  view.  Toward  Windermere 
the  high  peaks  and  crests  are  much  more  jagged  and 
rocky.  The  air  is  filled  with  the  same  white,  mo- 
tionless vapor  as  in  Scotland.  "When  the  sun  breaks 
through,  — 


IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY.          171 

'  Slant  watery  lights,  from  parting  clouds,  apace 
Travel  along  the  precipice's  base, 
Cheering  its  naked  waste  of  scatter'd  stone.' " 

Amid  these  scenes  one  comes  face  to  face  with 
nature, 

"  With  the  pristine  earth, 
The  planet  in  its  nakedness," 

as  he  cannot  in  a  wooded  country.  The  primal, 
abysmal  energies,  grown  tender  and  meditative,  as  it 
were,  thoughtful  of  the  shepherd  and  his  flocks,  and 
voiceful  only  in  the  leaping  torrents,  look  out  upon 
one  near  at  hand  and  pass  a  mute  recognition. 
Wordsworth  perpetually  refers  to  these  hills  and 
dales  as  lonely  or  lonesome ;  but  his  heart  was  still 
more  lonely.  The  outward  solitude  was  congenial  to 
the  isolation  and  profound  privacy  of  his  own  soul. 
"  Lonesome,"  he  says  of  one  of  these  mountain  dales, 

but 

"  Not  melancholy,  —  no,  for  it  is  green 
And  bright  and  fertile,  furnished  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires. 
In  rugged  arms  how  soft  it  seems  to  lie, 
How  tenderly  protected." 

It  is  this  tender  and  sheltering  character  of  the 
mountains  of  the  Lake  district  that  is  one  main  source 
of  their  charm.  So  rugged  and  lofty,  and  yet  so 
mellow  and  delicate !  No  shaggy,  weedy  growths  or 
tangles  anywhere  ;  nothing  wilder  than  the  bracken, 
which  at  a  distance  looks  as  solid  as  the  grass.  The 
turf  is  as  fine  and  thick  as  that  of  a  lawn.  The 
dainty-nosed  lambs  could  not  crave  a  tenderer  bite 


172     IN  WORDSWORTH'S  COUNTRY. 

than  it  affords.  The  wool  of  the  dams  could  hardly 
be  softer  to  the  foot.  The  last  of  July  the  grass 
was  still  short  and  thick,  as  if  it  never  shot  up  a 
stalk  and  produced  seed,  but  always  remained  a  fine, 
close  mat.  Nothing  was  more  unlike  what  I  was 
used  to  at  home  than  this  universal  tendency  (the 
same  is  true  in  Scotland  and  in  Wales)  to  grass,  and, 
on  the  lower  slopes,  to  bracken,  as  if  these  were  the 
only  two  plants  in  nature.  Many  of  these  eminences 
in  the  north  of  England,  too  lofty  for  hills  and  too 
smooth  for  mountains,  are  called  fells.  The  railway 
between  Carlisle  and  Preston  winds  between  them, 
as  Houghill  Fells,  Tebay  Fells,  Shap  Fells,  etc. 
They  are,  even  in  midsummer,  of  such  a  vivid  and 
uniform  green  that  it  seems  as  if  they  must  have 
been  painted.  Nothing  blurs  or  mars  the  hue:  no 
stalk  of  weed  or  stem  of  dry  grass.  The  scene,  in 
singleness  and  purity  of  tint,  rivals  the  blue  of  the 
sky.  Nature  does  not  seem  to  ripen  and  grow  sere 
as  autumn  approaches,  but  wears  the  tints  of  May  in 
October. 


A  GLANCE  AT  BRITISH  WILD 
FLOWERS. 


A  GLANCE  AT  BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS. 

THE  first  flower  I  plucked  in  Britain  was  the 
daisy,  in  one  of  the  parks  in  Glasgow.  The  sward 
had  recently  been  mown,  but  the  daisies  dotted  it  as 
thickly  as  stars.  It  is  a  flower  almost  as  common  as 
the  grass  ;  find  a  square  foot  of  green  sward  any- 
where, and  you  are  pretty  sure  to  find  a  daisy,  prob- 
ably several  of  them.  Bairn  wort,  —  child's  flower, 
it  is  called  in  some  parts,  —  and  its  expression  is 
truly  infantile.  It  is  the  favorite  of  all  the  poets, 
and  when  one  comes  to  see  it  he  does  not  think  it 
has  been  a  bit  overpraised.  Some  flowers  please  us 
by  their  intrinsic  beauty  of  color  and  form  ;  others 
by  their  expression  of  certain  human  qualities ;  the 
daisy  has  a  modest,  lowly,  unobtrusive  look  that  is 
very  taking.  A  little  white  ring,  its  margin  unevenly 
touched  with  crimson,  it  looks  up  at  one  like  the  eye 
of  a  child. 

"Thou  unassuming  Commonplace 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace, 
Which  Love  makes  for  thee ! " 

Not  a  little  of  its  charm  to  an  American  is  the 
unexpected  contrast  it  presents  with  the  rank,  coarse, 


176      A   GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS. 

ox-eye  daisy  so  common  in  this  country,  and  more  or 
less  abundant  in  Britain  too.  The  Scotch  call  this 
latter  "  dog  daisy."  I  thought  it  even  coarser  and 
taller  there  than  with  us.  Though  the  commonest 
of  weeds,  the  "wee,  modest,  crimson  -  tippit  flower" 
sticks  close  at  home ;  it  seems  to  have  none  of  the 
wandering,  devil-may-care,  vagabond  propensities  of 
so  many  other  weeds.  I  believe  it  has  never  yet  ap- 
peared upon  our  shores  in  a  wild  state,  though  Words- 
worth addressed  it  thus :  — 

"  Thou  wander'st  this  wild  world  about 
Unchecked  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt." 

The  daisy  is  prettier  in  the  bud  than  in  the  flower, 
as  it  then  shows  more  crimson.  It  shuts  up  on  the 
approach  of  foul  weather ;  hence  Tennyson  says  the 
daisy  closes 

"  Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower." 

At  Alloway,  whither  I  flitted  from  Glasgow,  I  first 
put  my  hand  into  the  British  nettle,  and,  I  may  add, 
took  it  out  again  as  quickly  as  if  I  had  put  it  into 
the  fire.  I  little  suspected  that  rank,  dark -green 
weed  there  amid  the  grass  under  the  old  apple-trees, 
where  the  blue  speedwell  and  cockscombs  grew,  to 
be  a  nettle.  But  I  soon  learned  that  the  one  plant 
you  can  count  on  everywhere  in  England  and  Scot- 
land is  the  nettle.  It  is  the  royal  weed  of  Britain. 
It  stands  guard  along  every  road-bank  and  hedgerow 
in  the  island. 

Put  your  hand  to  the  ground  after  dark  in  any 


A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS.      177 

fence  corner,  or  under  any  hedge,  or  on  the  border 
of  any  field,  and  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  you  will 
take  it  back  again  with  surprising  alacrity.  And 
such  a  villainous  fang  as  the  plant  has  !  it  is  like  the 
sting  of  bees.  Your  hand  burns  and  smarts  for  hours 
afterward.  My  little  boy  and  I  were  eagerly  gather- 
ing wild  flowers  on  the  banks  of  the  Doon,  when  I 
heard  him  scream,  a  few  yards  from  me.  I  had  that 
moment  jerked  my  stinging  hand  out  of  the  grass  as 
if  I  had  put  it  into  a  hornet's  nest,  and  I  knew  what 
the  youngster  had  found.  We  held  our  burning  fin- 
gers in  the  water,  which  only  aggravated  the  poison. 
It  is  a  dark-green,  rankly  growing  plant,  from  one  to 
two  feet  high,  that  asks  no  leave  of  anybody.  It  is 
the  police  that  protects  every  flower  in  the  hedge. 
To  "  pluck  the  flower  of  safety  from  the  nettle  dan- 
ger "  is  a  figure  of  speech  that  has  especial  force  in 
this  island.  The  species  of  our  own  nettle  with  which 
I  am  best  acquainted,  the  large-leaved  Canada  nettle, 
grows  in  the  woods,  is  shy  and  delicate,  is  cropped 
by  cattle,  and  its  sting  is  mild.  But  apparently  no 
cow's  tongue  can  stand  the  British  nettle,  though 
when  cured  as  hay  it  is  said  to  make  good  fodder. 
Even  the  pigs  cannot  eat  it  till  it  is  boiled.  In  star- 
vation times  it  is  extensively  used  as  a  pot-herb,  and, 
when  dried,  its  fibre  is  said  to  be  nearly  equal  to  that 
of  flax.  Rough  handling,  I  am  told,  disarms  it,  but  I 
could  not  summon  up  courage  to  try  the  experiment. 
Ophelia  made  her  garlands 

"  Of  crow-flowers,  daisies,  nettles,  and  long  purples." 
12 


178     A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS. 

But  the  nettle   here  referred  to  was  probably  the 
stingless,  dead  nettle. 

A  Scotch  farmer  with  whom  I  became  acquainted 
took  me  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  stroll  through  his 
fields.  I  went  to  his  kirk  in  the  forenoon  ;  in  the 
afternoon  he  and  his  son  went  to  mine,  and  liked  the 
sermon  as  well  as  I  did.  These  banks  and  braes  of 
Doon,  of  a  bright  day  in  May,  are  eloquent  enough 
for  anybody.  Our  path  led  along  the  river  course 
for  some  distance.  The  globe-flower,  like  a  large 
buttercup  with  the  petals  partly  closed,  nodded  here 
and  there.  On  a  broad,  sloping,  semicircular  bank, 
where  a  level  expanse  of  rich  fields  dropped  down  to 
a  springy,  rushy  bottom  near  the  river's  edge,  and 
which  the  Scotch  call  a  brae,  we  reclined  upon  the 
grass  and  listened  to  the  birds,  all  but  the  lark  new 
to  me,  and  discussed  the  flowers  growing  about.  In 
a  wet  place  the  "  gillyflower  "  was  growing,  suggest- 
ing our  dentaria,  or  crinkle-root  This  is  said  to  be 
"  the  lady's  smock  all  silver-white  "  of  Shakespeare, 
but  these  were  not  white,  rather  a  pale  lilac.  Near 
by,  upon  the  ground,  was  the  nest  of  the  meadow 
pipit,  a  species  of  lark,  which  my  friend  would  have 
me  believe  was  the  wood-lark,  —  a  bird  I  was  on  the 
lookout  for.  The  nest  contained  six  brown-speckled 
eggs,  —  a  large  number,  I  thought.  But  I  found 
that  this  is  the  country  in  which  to  see  birds'-nests 
crowded  with  eggs,  as  well  as  human  habitations 
thronged  with  children.  A  white  umbelliferous  plant, 
very  much  like  wild  carrot,  dotted  the  turf  here  and 


A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD   FLOWERS.      179 

there.  This,  my  companion  said,  was  pig-nut,  or 
ground-chestnut,  and*that  there  was  a  sweet,  edible 
tuber  at  the  root  of  it,  and  to  make  his  words  good, 
dug  up  one  with  his  fingers,  recalling  Caliban's  words 
in  the  "  Tempest  "  :  — 

"  And  I,  with  my  long  nails,  will  dig  thee  pig-nuts." 

The  plant  grows  freely  about  England,  but  does  not 
seem  to  be  troublesome  as  a  weed. 

In  a  wooded  slope  beyond  the  brae,  I  plucked  my 
first  woodruff,  a  little  cluster  of  pure  white  flowers, 
much  like  that  of  our  saxifrage,  with  a  delicate  per- 
fume. Its  stalk  has  a  whorl  of  leaves  like  the  gal- 
lium. As  the  plant  dries  its  perfume  increases,  and 
a  handful  of  it  will  scent  a  room. 

The  wild  hyacinths,  or  bluebells,  had  begun  to 
fade,  but  a  few  could  yet  be  gathered  here  and 
there  in  the  woods  and  in  the  edges  of  the  fields. 
This  is  one  of  the  plants  of  which  Nature  is  very 
prodigal  in  Britain.  In  places  it  makes  the  under- 
woods as  blue  as  the  sky,  and  its  rank  perfume  loads 
the  air.  Tennyson  speaks  of  "  sheets  of  hyacinths." 
We  have  no  wood  flower  in  the  Eastern  States  that 
grows  in  such  profusion. 

Our  flowers,  like  our  birds  and  wild  creatures,  are 
more  shy  and  retiring  than  the  British.  They  keep 
more  to  the  woods,  and  are  not  sowed  so  broadcast. 
Herb  Robert  is  exclusively  a  wood  plant  with  us,  but 
in  England  it  strays  quite  out  into  the  open  fields 
and  by  the  roadside.  Indeed,  in  England  I  found  no 


180      A  GLANCE   AT   BRITISH  WILD   FLOWERS. 

so-called  wood  flower  that  could  not  be  met  with 
more  or  less  in  the  fields  and  along  the  hedges.  The 
main  reason,  perhaps,  is  that  the  need  of  shelter  is 
never  so  great  there,  neither  winter  nor  summer,  as 
it  is  here,  and  the  supply  of  moisture  is  more  uniform 
and  abundant.  In  dampness,  coolness,  and  shadi- 
ness,  the  whole  climate  is  woodsey,  while  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  woods  themselves  is  almost  subterranean 
in  its  dankness  and  chilliness.  The  plants  come  out 
for  sun  and  warmth,  and  every  seed  they  scatter  in 
this  moist  and  fruitful  soil  takes. 

How  many  exclusive  wood  flowers  we  have,  most 
of  our  choicest  kinds  being  of  sylvan  birth,  flowers 
that  seem  to  vanish  before  the  mere  breath  of  culti- 
vated fields,  as  wild  as  the  partridge  and  the  beaver, 
like  the  yellow  violet,  the  arbutus,  the  medeola,  the 
dicentra,  the  claytonia,  the  trilliums,  many  of  the  or- 
chids, uvularia,  dalibarda,  and  others.  In  England, 
probably,  all  these  plants,  if  they  grew  there,  would 
come  out  into  the  fields  and  opens.  The  wild  straw- 
berry, however,  reverses  this  rule ;  it  is  more  a  wood 
plant  in  England  than  with  us.  Excepting  the  rarer 
variety  (F.  vesca),  our  strawberry  thrives  best  in  cul- 
tivated fields,  and  Shakespeare's  reference  to  this 
fruit  would  not  be  apt,  — 

"  The  strawberry  grows  underneath  the  nettle ; 
And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen  best, 
Neighbor'd  by  fruit  of  baser  quality." 

The  British  strawberry  is  found  exclusively,  I  be- 
lieve, in  woods  and  copses,  and  the  ripened  fruit  is 
smaller  or  lighter-colored  than  our  own. 


A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS.      181 

Nature  in  this  island  is  less  versatile  than  with  us, 
but  more  constant  and  uniform,  less  variety  and  con- 
trast in  her  works,  and  less  capriciousness  and  reser- 
vation also.  She  is  chary  of  new  species,  but  multi- 
plies the  old  ones  endlessly.  I  did  not  observe  so 
many  varieties  of  wild  flowers  as  at  home,  but  a 
great  profusion  of  specimens ;  her  lap  is  fuller,  but 
the  kinds  are  fewer.  Where  you  find  one  of  a  kind, 
you  will  find  ten  thousand.  Wordsworth  saw  "  gol- 
den daffodils," 

"  Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way," 

and  one  sees  nearly  all  the  common  wild  flowers  in 
the  same  profusion.  The  buttercup,  the  dandelion, 
the  ox-eye  daisy,  and  other  field  flowers  that  have 
come  to  us  from  Europe,  are  samples  of  how  lavishly 
Nature  bestows  her  floral  gifts  upon  the  Old  World. 
In  July  the  scarlet  poppies  are  thickly  sprinkled 
over  nearly  every  wheat  and  oat  field  in  the  king- 
dom. The  green  waving  grain  seems  to  have  been 
spattered  with  blood.  Other  flowers  were  alike  uni- 
versal. Not  a  plant  but  seems  to  have  sown  itself 
from  one  end  of  the  island  to  the  other.  Never 
before  did  I  see  so  much  white  clover.  From  the 
first  to  the  last  of  July,  the  fields  in  Scotland  and 
England  were  white  with  it.  Every  square  inch  of 
ground  had  its  clover  blossom.  Such  a  harvest  as 
there  was  for  the  honey-bee,  unless  the  nectar  was 
too  much  diluted  with  water  in  this  rainy  climate, 
which  was  probably  the  case.  In  traveling  south 


182      A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH   WILD  FLOWERS. 

from  Scotland,  the  fox-glove  (digitalis)  traveled  as 
fast  as  I  did,  and  I  found  it  just  as  abundant  in  the 
southern  counties  as  in  the  northern.  This  is  the 
most  beautiful  and  conspicuous  of  all  the  wild  flow- 
ers I  saw  —  a  spire  of  large  purple  bells  rising  above 
the  ferns  and  copses  and  along  the  hedges  every- 
where. Among  the  copses  of  Surrey  and  Hants,  I 
saw  it  five  feet  high,  and  amid  the  rocks  of  North 
Wales  still  higher.  We  have  no  conspicuous  wild 
flower  that  compares  with  it.  It  is  so  showy  and 
abundant  that  the  traveler  on  the  express  train  can- 
not miss  it ;  while  the  pedestrian  finds  it  lining  his 
way  like  rows  of  torches.  The  bloom  creeps  up  the 
stalk  gradually  as  the  season  advances,  taking  from 
a  month  to  six  weeks  to  go  from  the  bottom  to  the 
top,  making  at  all  times  a  most  pleasing  gradation 
of  color,  and  showing  the  plant  each  day  with  new 
flowers  and  a  fresh,  new  look.  It  never  looks  shabby 
and  spent,  from  first  to  last.  The  lower  buds  open 
the  first  week  in  June,  and  slowly  the  purple  wave 
creeps  upward ;  bell  after  bell  swings  to  the  bee 
and  moth,  till  the  end  of  July,  when  you  see  the 
stalk  waving  in  the  wind  with  two  or  three  flowers 
at  the  top,  as  perfect  and  vivid  as  those  that  opened 
first.  I  wonder  the  poets  have  not  mentioned  it 
oftener.  Tennyson  speaks  of  "  the  fox-glove  spire." 
I  note  this  allusion  in  Keats  :  — 

"  Where  the  deer's  swift  leap 
Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell," 

and  this  from  Coleridge :  — 


A  GLANCE   AT   BRITISH  WILD   FLOWERS.      183 

"  The  fox-glove  tall 

Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells  or  in  the  gust, 
Or  when  it  bends  beneath  the  upspringing  lark, 
Or  mountain  finch  alighting." 

Coleridge  perhaps  knew  that  the  lark  did  not  perch 
upon  the  stalk  of  the  fox-glove,  or  upon  any  other 
stalk  or  branch,  being  entirely  a  ground  bird  and  not 
a  percher,  but  he  would  seem  to  imply  that  it  did, 
in  these  lines. 

A  London  correspondent  calls  my  attention  to  these 
lines  from  Wordsworth  :  — 

"  '  Bees  that  soar 

High  as  the  highest  peak  of  Furness  Fells, 
Yet  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells ; '  " 

and  adds  :  "  Less  poetical,  but  as  graphic,  was  a  Dev- 
onshire woman's  comparison  of  a  dull  preacher  to  a 
6  Drummle  drane  in  a  pop ; '  Anglice,  A  drone  in  a 
foxglove,  —  called  a  pop  from  children  amusing  them- 
selves with  popping  its  bells." 

The  prettiest  of  all  humble  roadside  flowers  I  saw 
was  the  little  blue  speedwell.  I  was  seldom  out  of 
sight  of  it  anywhere  in  my  walks  till  near  the  end  of 
June  ;  while  its  little  bands  and  assemblages  ef  deep- 
blue  flowers  in  the  grass  by  the  roadside,  turning  a 
host  of  infantile  faces  up  to  the  sun,  often  made  me 
pause  and  admire.  It  is  prettier  than  the  violet,  and 
larger  and  deeper-colored  than  our  houstonia.  It  is  a 
small  and  delicate  edition  of  our  hepatica,  done  in, 
indigo  blue  and  wonted  to  the  grass  in  the  fields  and 
by  the  waysides. 

"The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue," 


184      A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD   FLOWERS. 

sings  Tennyson.  I  saw  it  blooming,  with  the  daisy 
and  the  buttercup,  upon  the  grave  of  Carlyle.  The 
tender  human  and  poetic  element  of  this  stern  rocky 
nature  was  well  expressed  by  it. 

In  the  Lake  district  I  saw  meadows  purple  with  a 
species  of  wild  geranium,  probably  geranium  pratens. 
It  answered  well  to  our  wild  geranium,  which  in 
May  sometimes  covers  wettish  meadows  in  the  same 
manner,  except  that  this  English  species  was  of  a 
dark-blue  purple.  Prunella,  I  noticed,  was  of  a  much 
deeper  purple  there  than  at  home.  The  purple  or- 
chids also  were  stronger  colored,  but  less  graceful  and 
pleasing,  than  our  own.  One  species  which  I  noticed 
in  June,  with  habits  similar  to  our  purple-fringed 
orchis,  perhaps  the  pyramidal  orchis,  had  quite  a 
coarse,  plebeian  look.  Probably  the  most  striking 
blue  and  purple  wild  flowers  we  have  are  of  Eu- 
ropean origin,  as  succory,  blue  weed  or  bugloss,  ver- 
vain, purple  loosestrife,  and  harebell.  These  colors, 
except  with  the  fall  asters  and  gentians,  seem  rather 
unstable  in  our  flora. 

It  has  been  observed  by  the  Norwegian  botanist 
Schiibeler  that  plants  and  trees  in  the  higher  lati- 
tudes have  larger  leaves  and  larger  flowers  than  far- 
ther south,  and  that  many  flowers  which  are  white 
in  the  south  become  violet  in  the  far  north.  This 
agrees  with  my  own  observation.  The  feebler  light 
necessitates  more  leaf  surface,  and  the  fewer  insects 
necessitate  larger  and  moro  showy  flowers  to  attract 
them  and  secure  cross  fertilization.  Blackberry 


A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS.      185 

blossoms,  so  white  with  us,  are  a  decided  pink  in 
England.  The  same  is  true  of  the  water-plantain. 
Our  houstonia  and  hepatica  would  probably  become 
a  deep  blue  in  that  country.  The  marine  climate 
probably  has  something  to  do  also  with  this  high 
color  of  the  British  flowers,  as  I  have  noticed  that  on 
our  New  England  coast  the  same  flowers  are  deeper 
tinted  than  they  are  in  the  interior. 

A  flower  which  greets  all  ramblers  to  moist  fields 
and  tranquil  water -courses  in  midsummer  is  the 
meadow-sweet,  called  also  queen  of  the  meadows.  It 
belongs  to  the  Spiraa  tribe,  where  our  hardback, 
nine-bark,  meadow-sweet,  queen  of  the  prairie,  and 
others,  belong,  but  surpasses  all  our  species  in  being 
sweet-scented  —  a  suggestion  of  almonds  and  cinna- 
mon. I  saw  much  of  it  about  Stratford,  and  in  row- 
ing on  the  Avon  plucked  its  large  clusters  of  fine, 
creamy  white  flowers  from  my  boat.  Arnold  is  felici- 
tous in  describing  it  as  the  "  blond  meadow-sweet.'* 

They  cultivate  a  species  of  clover  in  England  that 
gives  a  striking  effect  to  a  field  when  in  bloom,  tri- 
folium  incarnatum,  the  long  heads  as  red  as  blood. 
It  is  grown  mostly  for  green  fodder.  I  saw  not  one 
spear  of  Timothy  grass  in  all  my  rambles.  As  this 
is  an  American  grass,  it  seems  to  be  quite  unknown 
among  English  and  Scotch  farmers.  The  horse  bean, 
or  Winchester  bean,  sown  broadcast,  is  a  new  feature, 
while  its  perfume,  suggesting  that  of  apple  orchards, 
is  the  most  agreeable  to  be  met  with. 

I  was  delighted  with  the  furze,  or  whin,  as  the 


186      A  GLANCE  AT  BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS. 

Scotch  call  it,  with  its  multitude  of  rich  yellow,  pea- 
like  blossoms  exhaling  a  perfume  that  reminded  me  of 
mingled  cocoanut  and  peaches.  It  is  a  prickly,  disa- 
greeable shrub  to  the  touch,  like  our  ground  juniper. 
It  seems  to  mark  everywhere  the  line  of  cultivation  ; 
where  the  furze  begins  the  plow  stops.  It  covers 
heaths  and  commons,  and,  with  the  heather,  gives 
that  dark  hue  to  the  Scotch  and  English  uplands. 
The  heather  I  did  not  see  in  all  its  glory.  It  was 
just  coming  into  bloom  when  I  left,  the  last  of  July ; 
but  the  glimpses  I  had  of  it  in  North  Wales,  and 
again  in  Northern  Ireland,  were  most  pleasing.  It 
gave  a  purple  border  or  fringe  to  the  dark  rocks  (the 
rocks  are  never  so  lightly  tinted  in  this  island  as  ours 
are)  that  was  very  rich  and  striking.  The  heather 
vies  with  the  grass  in  its  extent  and  uniformity. 
Until  midsummer  it  covers  the  moors  and  uplands  as 
with  a  dark-brown  coat.  When  it  blooms,  this  coat 
becomes  a  royal  robe.  The  flower  yields  honey  to 
the  bee,  and  the  plant  shelter  to  the  birds  and  game, 
and  is  used  by  the  cottagers  for  thatching,  and  for 
twisting  into  ropes,  and  for  various  other  purposes. 

Several  troublesome  weeds  I  noticed  in  England 
that  have  not  yet  made  their  appearance  in  this  coun- 
try. Colt's-foot  infests  the  plowed  lands  there,  send- 
ing up  its  broad  fuzzy  leaves  as  soon  as  the  grain  is 
up,  and  covering  large  areas.  It  is  found  in  this 
country,  but,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  only  in  out- 
of-the-way  places. 

Sheep  sorrel  has  come  to  us  from  over  seas,  and 


A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD  .FLOWERS.      187 

reddens  many  a  poor  worn-out  field ;  but  the  larger 
species  of  sorrel,  rumex  acetosa,  so  common  in  Eng- 
lish fields,  and  shooting  up  a  stem  two  feet  high,  was 
quite  new  to  me.  Nearly  all  the  related  species,  the 
various  docks,  are  naturalized  upon  our  shores. 

On  the  whole,  the  place  to  see  European  weeds  is 
in  America.  They  run  riot  here.  They  are  like 
boys  out  of  school,  leaping  all  bounds.  They  have 
the  freedom  of  the  whole  broad  land,  and  are  allowed 
to  take  possession  in  a  way  that  would  astonish  a 
British  farmer.  The  Scotch  thistle  is  much  rarer  in 
Scotland  than  in  New  York  or  Massachusetts.  I  saw 
only  one  mullein  by  the  roadside,  and  that  was  in 
Wales,  though  it  flourishes  here  and  there  through- 
out the  island.  The  London  correspondent,  already 
quoted,  says  of  the  mullein :  "  One  will  come  up  in 
solitary  glory,  but,  though  it  bears  hundreds  of  flow- 
ers, many  years  will  elapse  before  another  is  seen  in 
the  same  neighborhood.  We  used  to  say,  '  There  is 
a  mullein  coming  up  in  such  a  place,'  much  as  if  we 
had  seen  a  comet ;  and  its  flannel-like  leaves  and  the 
growth  of  its  spike  were  duly  watched  and  reported  on 
day  by  day."  I  did  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  blue-weed, 
Bouncing  Bet,  elecampane,  live-for-ever,  bladder  cam- 
pion, and  others,  of  which  I  see  acres  at  home,  though 
all  these  weeds  do  grow  there.  They  hunt  the  weeds 
mercilessly ;  they  have  no  room  for  them.  You  see 
men  and  boys,  women  and  girls  in  the  meadows  and 
pastures  cutting  them  out.  A  species  of  wild  mustard 
infests  the  best  grain  lands  in  June ;  when  in  bloom 


188      A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD   FLOWERS. 

it  gives  to  the  oat-fields  a  fresh  canary  yellow.  Then 
men  and  boys  walk  carefully  through  the  drilled  grain 
and  pull  the  mustard  out,  and  carry  it  away,  leaving 
not  one  blossom  visible. 

On  the  whole,  I  should  say  that  the  British  wild 
flowers  were  less  beautiful  than  our  own,  but  more 
abundant  and  noticeable,  and  more  closely  associated 
with  the  country  life  of  the  people  ;  just  as  their 
birds  are  more  familiar,  abundant,  and  vociferous 
than  our  songsters,  but  not  so  sweet-voiced  and  plain- 
tively melodious.  An  agreeable  coarseness  and  ro- 
bustness characterize  most  of  their  flowers,  and  they 
more  than  make  up  in  abundance  where  they  lack  in 
grace. 

The  surprising  delicacy  of  our  first  spring  flowers, 
of  the  hepatica,  the  spring  beauty,  the  arbutus,  the 
bloodroot,  the  rue-anemone,  the  dicentra,  a  beauty 
and  delicacy  that  pertains  to  exclusive  wood  forms, 
contrasts  with  the  more  hardy,  hairy,  hedgerow  look 
of  their  firstlings  of  the  spring,  like  the  primrose,  the 
hyacinth,  the  wood  spurge,  the  green  hellebore,  the 
hedge  garlic,  the  moschatel,  the  daffodil,  the  celan- 
dine, and  others.  Most  of  these  flowers  take  one 
by  their  multitude ;  the  primrose  covers  broad  hedge 
banks  for  miles  as  with  a  carpet  of  bloom.  In  my 
excursions  into  field  and  forest  I  saw  nothing  of  the 
intense  brilliancy  of  our  cardinal  flower,  which  al- 
most baffles  the  eye  ;  nothing  'with  the  wild  grace  of 
our  meadow  or  mountain  lilies  ;  no  wood  flower  so 
taking  to  the  eye  as  our  painted  trillium  and  lady's- 


A  GLANCE  AT  BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS.      189 

slipper ;  no  bog  flower  that  compares  with  our  calo- 
pogon  and  arethusa,  so  common  in  southeastern  New 
England  ;  no  brook-side  flower  that  equals  our  jewel- 
weed  ;  no  rock  flower  before  which  one  would  pause 
with  the  same  feeling  of  admiration  as  before  our 
columbine ;  no  violet  as  striking  as  our  bird's-foot 
violet ;  no  trailing  flower  that  approaches  our  match- 
less arbutus  ;  no  fern  as  delicate  as  our  maiden-hair ; 
no  flowering  shrub  as  sweet  as  our  azaleas.  In  fact, 
their  flora  presented  a  commoner  type  of  beauty, 
very  comely  and  pleasing,  but  not  so  exquisite  and 
surprising  as  our  own.  The  contrast  is  well  shown 
in  the  flowering  of  the  maples  of  the  two  countries  — 
that  of  the  European  species  being  stiff  and  coarse 
compared  with  the  fringe-like  grace  and  delicacy  of 
our  maple.  In  like  manner  the  silken  tresses  of  our 
white  pine  contrast  strongly  with  the  coarser  foliage 
of  the  European  pines.  But  what  they  have,  they 
have  in  greatest  profusion.  Few  of  their  flowers 
waste  their  sweetness  on  the  desert  air ;  they  throng 
the  fields,  lanes,  and  highways,  and  are  known  and 
seen  of  all.  They  bloom  on  the  house-tops,  and 
wave  from  the  summits  of  castle  walls.  The  spring 
meadows  are  carpeted  with  flowers,  and  the  midsum- 
mer grain-fields,  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the 
other,  are  spotted  with  fire  and  gold  in  the  scarlet 
poppies  and  corn  marigolds. 

I  plucked  but  one  white  pond  lily,  and  that  was  in 
the  Kew  Gardens,  where  I  suppose  the  plucking  was 
trespassing.  Its  petals  were  slightly  blunter  than 


190     A  GLANCE  AT   BRITISH  WILD  FLOWERS. 

ours,  and  it  had  no  perfume.  Indeed,  in  the  matter 
of  sweet-scented  flowers,  our  flora  shows  by  far  the 
most  varieties,  the  British  flora  seeming  richer  in  this 
respect  by  reason  of  the  abundance  of  specimens  of 
any  given  kind. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  flowery  land ;  a  kind  of  perpetual 
spring-time  reigns  there,  a  perennial  freshness  and 
bloom  such  as  our  fierce  skies  do  not  permit. 


BKITISH  FERTILITY. 


BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

IN  crossing  the  Atlantic  from  the  New  World  to  the 
Old,  one  of  the  first  intimations  the  traveler  has  that 
he  is  nearing  a  strange  shore,  and  an  old  and  populous 
one,  is  the  greater  boldness  and  familiarity  of  the 
swarms  of  sea-gulls  that  begin  to  hover  in  the  wake 
of  the  ship,  and  dive  and  contend  with  each  other  for 
the  fragments  and  parings  thrown  overboard  from  the 
pantry.  They  have  at  once  a  different  air  and  man- 
ner from  those  we  left  behind.  How  bold  and  tire- 
less they  are,  pursuing  the  vessel  from  dawn  to  dark, 
and  coming  almost  near  enough  to  take  the  food  out 
of  your  hand  as  you  lean  over  the  bulwarks.  It  is  a 
sign  in  the  air ;  it  tells  the  whole  story  of  the  hungry 
and  populous  countries  you  are  approaching ;  it  is 
swarming  and  omnivorous  Europe  come  out  to  meet 
you.  You  are  near  the  sea-marge  of  a  land  teeming 
with  life,  a  land  where  the  prevailing  forms  are  in- 
deed few,  but  these  on  the  most  copious  and  vehement 
scale ;  where  the  birds  and  animals  are  not  only  more 
numerous  than  at  home,  but  more  dominating  and 
aggressive,  more  closely  associated  with  man,  con- 
tending with  him  for  the  fruits  of  the  soil,  learned  in 
his  ways,  full  of  resources,  prolific,  tenacious  of  life, 
13 


194  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

not  easily  checked  or  driven  out,  —  in  fact,  charac- 
terized by  greater  persistence  and  fecundity.  This 
fact  is  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  strike  the  American 
in  Britain.  There  seems  to  be  an  aboriginal  push 
and  heat  in  animate  nature  there,  to  behold  which  is 
a  new  experience.  It  is  the  Old  World,  and  yet  it 
really  seems  the  New  in  the  virility  and  hardihood 
of  its  species. 

The  New  Englander  who  sees  with  evil  forebod- 
ings the  rapid  falling  off  of  the  birth-rate  in  his  own 
land,  the  family  rills  shrinking  in  these  later  genera- 
tions, like  his  native  streams  in  summer,  and  who 
consequently  fears  for  the  perpetuity  of  the  race, 
may  see  something  to  comfort  him  in  the  British 
islands.  Behold  the  fecundity  of  the  parent  stock ! 
The  drought  that  has  fallen  upon  the  older  parts  of 
the  New  World  does  not  seem  to  have  affected  the 
sources  of  being  in  these  islands.  They  are  appar- 
ently as  copious  and  exhaustless  as  they  were  three 
centuries  ago.  Britain  might  well  appropriate  to 
herself  the  last  half  of  Emerson's  quatrain :  — 

"  No  numbers  have  counted  my  tallies, 

No  tribes  my  house  can  fill ; 
I  sit  by  the  shining  Fount  of  Life, 
And  pour  the  deluge  still." 

For  it  is  literally  a  deluge  ;  the  land  is  inundated 
with  humanity.  Thirty  millions  of  people  within 
the  area  of  one  of  our  larger  states,  and  who  shall 
say  that  high-water  mark  is  yet  reached?  Every- 
thing betokens  a  race  still  in  its  youth,  still  on  the 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  195 

road  to  empire.  The  full-blooded  ness,  the  large  feet 
and  hands,  the  prominent  canine  teeth,  the  stomachic 
and  muscular  robustness,  the  health  of  the  women, 
the  savage  jealousy  of  personal  rights,  the  swarms 
upon  swarms  of  children  and  young  people,  the  de- 
light in  the  open  air  and  in  athletic  sports,  the  love 
of  danger  and  adventure,  a  certain  morning  freshness 
and  youthfulness  in  their  look,  as  if  their  food  and 
sleep  nourished  them  well,  together  with  a  certain 
animality  and  stupidity,  —  all  indicate  a  people  who 
have  not  yet  slackened  speed  or  taken  in  sail.  Neither 
the  land  nor  the  race  shows  any  exhaustion.  In  both 
there  is  yet  the  freshness  and  fruitfulness  of  a  new 
country.  You  would  think  the  people  had  just  come 
into  possession  of  a  virgin  soil.  There  is  a  pioneer 
hardiness  and  fertility  about  them.  Families  increase 
as  in  our  early  frontier  settlements.  Let  me  quote  a 
paragraph  from  Taine's  "  Notes  "  :  — 

"  An  Englishman  nearly  always  has  many  chil- 
dren, —  the  rich  as  well  as  the  poor.  The  Queen 
has  nine,  and  sets  the  example.  Let  us  run  over  the 

families  we  are  acquainted  with :  Lord has  six 

children  ;  the  Marquis  of ,  twelve  ;  Sir  N , 

nine ;  Mr.  S ,  a  judge,  twenty  -  four,  of  whom 

twenty-two  are  living;  several  clergymen,  five,  six, 
and  up  to  ten  and  twelve." 

Thus  is  the  census  kept  up  and  increased.  The 
land,  the  towns  and  cities,  are  like  hives  in  swarming 
time ;  a  fertile  queen  indeed,  and  plenty  of  brood« 
comb !  Were  it  not  for  the  wildernesses  of  America, 


196  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

of  Africa,  and  Australia,  to  which  these  swarms  mi- 
grate, the  people  would  suffocate  and  trample  each 
other  out.  A  Scotch  or  English  city,  compared  with 
one  of  ours,  is  a  kind  of  duplex  or  compound  city  ; 
it  has  a  double  interior,  —  the  interior  of  the  closes 
and  alleys,  in  which  and  out  of  which  the  people 
swarm  like  flies.  Every  country  village  has  its 
closes,  its  streets  between  streets,  where  the  humbler 
portion  of  the  population  is  packed  away.  This 
back-door  humanity  streams  forth  to  all  parts  of  the 
world,  and  carries  the  national  virtues  with  it.  In 
walking  through  some  of  the  older  portions  of  Edin- 
burgh, I  was  somehow  reminded  of  colonies  of  cliff- 
swallows  I  had  seen  at  home,  packed  beneath  the 
eaves  of  a  farmer's  barn,  every  inch  of  space  occu- 
pied, the  tenements  crowding  and  lapping  over  each 
other,  the  interstices  filled,  every  coigne  of  vantage 
seized  upon,  the  pendent  beds  and  procreant  cradles 
ranked  one  above  another,  and  showing  all  manner 
of  quaint  and  ingenious  forms  and  adaptability  to 
circumstances.  In  both  London  and  Edinburgh  there 
are  streets  above  streets,  or  huge  viaducts  that  carry 
one  torrent  of  humanity  above  another  torrent.  They 
utilize  the  hills  and  depressions  to  make  more  surface 
room  for  their  swarming  myriads. 

One  day,  in  my  walk  through  the  Trosachs  in  the 
Highlands,  I  came  upon  a  couple  of  ant-hills  that 
arrested  my  attention.  They  were  a  type  of  the 
country.  They  were  not  large,  scarcely  larger  than 
a  peck  measure,  but  never  before  had  I  seen  arit-hills 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  197 

so  populous  and  so  lively.  They  ware  living  masses 
of  ants,  while  the  ground  for  yards  about  literally 
rustled  with  their  numbers.  I  knew  ant-hills  at 
home,  and  had  noted  them  carefully,  hills  that  would 
fill  a  cart-box ;  but  they  were  like  empty  tenements 
compared  with  these,  a  fort  garrisoned  with  a  com- 
pany instead  of  an  army  corps.  These  hills  stood  in. 
thin  woods  by  the  roadside.  From  each  of  them 
radiated  five  main  highways,  like  the  spokes  of  a 
wheel.  These  highways  were  clearly  defined  to  the 
eye,  the  grass  and  leaves  being  slightly  beaten  down. 
Along  each  one  of  them  there  was  a  double  line  of 
ants,  —  one  line  going  out  for  supplies  and  the  other 
returning  with  booty,  —  worms,  flies,  insects,  a  con- 
stant stream  of  game  going  into  the  capitol.  If  the 
ants,  with  any  given  worm  or  bug,  got  stuck,  those 
passing  out  would  turn  and  lend  a  helping  hand.  The 
ground  between  the  main  highways  was  being 
threaded  in  all  directions  by  individual  ants,  beating 
up  and  down  for  game.  The  same  was  true  of  the 
surface  all  about  the  terminus  of  the  roads,  several 
yards  distant.  If  I  stood  a  few  moments  in  one 
place,  the  ants  would  begin  to  climb  up  my  shoes  and 
so  up  my  legs.  Stamping  them  off  seemed  only  to 
alarm  and  enrage  the  whole  camp,  so  that  I  would 
presently  be  compelled  to  retreat.  Seeing  a  big 
straddling  beetle,  I  caught  him  and  dropped  him 
upon  the  nest.  The  ants  attacked  him  as  wolves 
might  attack  an  elephant.  They  clung  to  his  legs, 
they  mounted  his  back,  and  assaulted  him  in  front. 


198  BRITISH   FERTILITY. 

As  lie  rushed  through  and  over  their  ranks,  down 
the  side  of  the  mound,  those  clinging  to  his  legs  were 
caught  hold  of  by  others,  till  lines  of  four  or  five 
ants  were  being  jerked  along  by  each  of  his  six  legs. 
The  infuriated  beetle  cleared  the  mound,  and  crawled 
under  leaves  and  sticks  to  sweep  off  his  clinging  ene- 
mies, and  finally  seemed  to  escape  them  by  burying 
himself  in  the  earth.  Then  I  took  one  of  those  large, 
black,  shelless  snails  with  which  this  land  abounds,  a 
snail  the  size  of  my  thumb,  and  dropped  it  upon  the 
nest.  The  ants  swarmed  upon  it  at  once,  and  began 
to  sink  their  jaws  into  it.  This  woke  the  snail  up  to 
the  true  situation,  and  it  showed  itself  not  without 
resources  against  its  enemies.  Flee,  like  the  beetle, 
it  could  not,  but  it  bore  an  invisible  armor ;  it  began 
to  secrete  from  every  pore  of  its  body  a  thick,  whitish, 
viscid  substance,  that  tied  every  ant  that  came  in 
contact  with  it,  hand  and  foot,  in  a  twinkling.  When 
a  thick  coating  of  this  impromptu  bird-lime  had  been 
exuded,  the  snail  wriggled  right  and  left  a  few  times, 
partly  sloughing  it  off,  and  thus  ingulfing  hundreds 
of  its  antagonists.  Never  was  army  of  ants  or  of 
men  bound  in  such  a  Stygian  quagmire  before.  New 
phalanxes  rushed  up  and  tried  to  scale  the  mass  ; 
most  of  them  were  mired  like  their  fellows,  but  a 
few  succeeded  and  gained  the  snail's  back ;  then  be- 
gan the  preparation  of  another  avalanche  of  glue  ; 
the  creature  seemed  to  dwindle  in  size,  and  to  nerve 
itself  to  the  work ;  as  fast  as  the  ants  reached  him  in 
any  number  he  ingulfed  them ;  he  poured  the  vials 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  199 

of  his  glutinous  wrath  upon  them  till  he  had  formed 
quite  a  rampart  of  cemented  and  helpless  ants  about 
him ;  fresh  ones  constantly  coming  up  laid  hold  of 
the  barricade  with  their  jaws,  and  were  often  hung 
that  way.  I  lingered  half  an  hoar  or  more  to  see  the 
issue,  but  was  finally  compelled  to  come  away  before 
the  closing  scene.  I  presume  the  ants  finally  tri- 
umphed. The  snail  had  nearly  exhausted  its  ammu- 
nition ;  each  new  broadside  took  more  and  more  time 
and  was  less  and  less  effective ;  while  the  ants  had 
unlimited  resources,  and  could  make  bridges  of  their 
sunken  armies.  But  how  they  finally  freed  them- 
selves and  their  mound  of  that  viscid,  sloughing  mon- 
ster I  should  be  glad  to  know. 

But  it  was  not  these  incidents  that  impressed  me 
so  much  as  the  numbers  and  the  animation  of  the 
ants,  and  their  raiding,  buccaneering  propensities. 
When  I  came  to  London  I  could  not  help  thinking  of 
the  ant-hill  I  had  seen  in  the  North.  This,  I  said,  is 
the  biggest  ant-hill  yet.  See  the  great  steam  high- 
ways, leading  to  all  points  of  the  compass ;  see  the 
myriads  swarming,  jostling  each  other  in  the  streets, 
and  overflowing  all  the  surrounding  country.  See 
the  under-ground  tunnels  and  galleries  and  the  over- 
ground viaducts  ;  see  the  activity  and  the  supplies, 
the  whole  earth  the  hunting-ground  of  these  insects 
and  rustling  with  their  multitudinous  stir.  One  may 
be  pardoned,  in  the  presence  of  such  an  enormous 
aggregate  of  humanity  as  London  shows,  for  think- 
ing of  insects.  Men  and  women  seem  cheapened 


200  BRITISH   FERTILITY. 

and  belittled,  as  if  the  spawn  of  blow -flies  had 
turned  to  human  beings.  How  the  throng  stream  on 
interminably,  the  streets  like  river-beds,  full  to  their 
banks !  One  hardly  notes  the  units,  —  he  sees  only 
the  black  tide.  He  loses  himself,  and  becomes  an 
insignificant  ant  with  the  rest.  He  is  borne  along 
through  the  galleries  and  passages  to  the  under- 
ground railway,  and  is  swept  forward  like  a  drop  in 
the  sea.  I  used  to  make  frequent  trips  to  the  coun- 
try, or  seek  out  some  empty  nook  in  St.  Paul's,  to 
come  to  my  senses.  But  it  requires  no  ordinary  ef- 
fort to  find  one's  self  in  St.  Paul's,  and  in  the  coun- 
try you  must  walk  fast  or  London  will  overtake  you. 
When  I  would  think  I  had  a  stretch  of  road  all  to 
myself,  a  troop  of  London  bicyclists  would  steal  up 
behind  me  and  suddenly  file  by  like  spectres.  The 
whole  land  is  London-struck.  You  feel  the  suction 
of  the  huge  city  wherever  you  are.  It  draws  like  a 
cyclone;  every  current  tends  that  way.  It  would 
seem  as  if  cities  and  towns  were  constantly  breaking 
from  their  moorings  and  drifting  thitherward  and 
joining  themselves  to  it.  On  every  side  one  finds 
smaller  cities  welded  fast.  It  spreads  like  a  malig- 
nant growth,  that  involves  first  one  organ  and  then 
another.  But  it  is  not  malignant.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  perhaps  as  normal  and  legitimate  a  city  as  there 
is  on  the  globe.  It  is  the  proper  outcome  and  ex- 
pression of  that  fertile  and  bountiful  land,  and  that 
hardy,  multiplying  race.  It  seems  less  the  result  of 
trade  and  commerce,  and  more  the  result  of  the  do- 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  201 

mestic  home-seeking  and  home-building  instinct,  than 
any  other  city  I  have  yet  seen.  I  felt,  and  yet  feel, 
its  attraction.  It  is  such  an  aggregate  of  actual  hu- 
man dwellings  that  this  feeling  pervades  the  very  air. 
All  its  vast  and  multiplex  industries,  and  its  traffic, 
seem  domestic,  like  the  chores  about  the  household. 
I  used  to  get  glimpses  of  it  from  the  northwest  bor- 
ders, from  Hampstead  Heath,  and  from  about  High- 
gate,  lying  there  in  the  broad,  gentle  valley  of  the 
Thames,  like  an  enormous  country  village  —  a  vil- 
lage with  nearly  four  million  souls,  where  people  find 
life  sweet  and  wholesome,  and  keep  a  rustic  freshness 
of  look  and  sobriety  of  manner.  See  their  vast 
parks  and  pleasure  grounds ;  see  the  upper  Thames, 
of  a  bright  Sunday,  alive  with  rowing  parties ;  see 
them  picnicking  in  all  the  country  adjacent.  Indeed, 
in  summer  a  social  and  even  festive  air  broods  over 
the  whole  vast  encampment.  There  is  squalor  and 
misery  enough,  of  course,  and  too  much,  but  this 
takes  itself  away  to  holes  and  corners. 


n. 

A  FERTILE  race,  a  fertile  nature,  swarms  in  these 
islands.  The  climate  is  a  kind  of  prolonged  May,  and 
a  vernal  lustiness  and  raciness  are  characteristic  of 
all  the  prevailing  forms.  Life  is  rank  and  lull.  Re- 
production is  easy.  There  is  plenty  of  sap,  plenty 
of  blood.  The  salt  of  the  sea  prickles  in  the  veins ; 


202  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

the  spawning  waters  have  imparted  their  virility  to 
the  land.  'T  is  a  tropical  and  an  arctic  nature  com- 
bined, the  fruitfulness  of  one  and  the  activity  of  the 
other. 

The  national  poet  is  Shakespeare.  In  him  we  get 
the  literary  and  artistic  equivalents  of  this  teeming, 
racy,  juicy  land  and  people.  It  needs  just  such  a 
soil,  just  such  a  background,  to  account  for  him.  The 
poetic  value  of  this  continence  on  the  one  hand,  and 
of  this  riot  and  prodigality  on  the  other,  is  in  his 
pages. 

The  teeming  human  populations  reflect  only  the 
general  law :  there  is  the  same  fullness  of  life  in 
the  lower  types,  the  same  push  and  hardiness.  It  is 
the  opinion  of  naturalists  that  the  prevailing  Euro- 
pean forms  are  a  later  production  than  those  of  the 
southern  hemisphere  or  of  the  United  States,  and 
hence,  according  to  Darwin's  law,  should  be  more 
versatile  and  dominating.  That  this  last  fact  holds 
good  with  regard  to  them,  no  competent  observer 
can  fail  to  see.  When  European  plants  and  ani- 
mals come  into  competition  with  American,  the  lat- 
ter, for  the  most  part,  go  to  the  wall,  as  do  the  na- 
tives in  Australia.  Or  shall  we  say  that  the  native 
species  flee  before  the  advent  of  civilization,  the  de- 
nuding the  land  of  its  forests,  and  the  European  spe- 
cies come  in  and  take  their  place?  Yet  the  fact 
remains,  that  that  trait  or  tendency  to  persist  in  the 
face  of  obstacles,  to  hang  on  by  tooth  and  nail,  ready 
in  new  expedients,  thriving  where  others  starve, 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  203 

climbing  where  others  fall,  multiplying  where  others 
perish,  like  certain  weeds,  which  if  you  check  the 
seed  will  increase  at  the  root,  is  more  marked  in  the 
forms  that  have  come  to  us  from  Europe  than  in  the 
native  inhabitants.  Nearly  everything  that  has  come 
to  this  country  from  the  Old  World  has  come  pre- 
pared to  fight  its  way  through  and  take  possession. 
The  European  or  Old  World  man,  the  Old  World 
animals,  the  Old  World  grasses  and  grains,  and  weeds 
and  vermin,  are  in  possession  of  the  land,  and  the 
native  species  have  given  way  before  them.  The 
honey-bee,  with  its  greed,  its  industry,  and  its  swarms, 
is  a  fair  type  of  the  rest.  The  English  house-spar- 
row, which  we  were  at  such  pains  to  introduce,  breeds 
like  vermin  and  threatens  to  become  a  plague  in  the 
land.  Nearly  all  our  troublesome  weeds  are  Euro- 
pean. When  a  new  species  gets  a  foothold  here,  it 
spreads  like  fire.  The  European  rats  and  mice  would 
eat  us  up,  were  it  not  for  the  European  cats  we 
breed.  The  wolf  not  only  keeps  a  foot-hold  in  old 
and  populous  countries  like  France  and  Germany, 
but  in  the  former  country  has  so  increased  of  late 
years  that  the  government  has  offered  an  additional 
bounty  upon  their  pelts.  When  has  an  American 
wolf  been  seen  or  heard  in  our  comparatively  sparsely 
settled  Eastern  or  Middle  States  ?  They  have  dis- 
appeared as  completely  as  the  beavers.  Yet  it  is 
probably  true  that,  in  a  new  country  like  ours,  a  ten- 
dency slowly  develops  itself  among  the  wild  crea- 
tures to  return  and  repossess  the  land  under  the 


204  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

altered  conditions.  It  is  so  with  the  plants  and  prob- 
ably so  with  the  animals.  Thus,  the  chimney-swal- 
lows give  up  the  hollow  trees  for  the  chimneys,  the 
cliff-swallows  desert  the  cliffs  for  the  eaves  of  the 
barns,  the  squirrels  find  they  can  live  in  and  about 
the  fields,  etc.  In  my  own  locality,  our  native  mice 
are  becoming  much  more  numerous  about  the  build- 
ings than  formerly ;  in  the  older  settled  portions  of 
the  country,  the  flying  squirrel  often  breeds  in  the 
houses  ;  the  wolf  does  not  seem  to  let  go  in  the  West 
as  readily  as  he  did  in  the  East ;  the  black  bear  is 
coming  back  to  parts  of  the  country  where  it  had  not 
been  seen  for  thirty  years. 

I  noticed  many  traits  among  the  British  animals 
and  birds  that  looked  like  the  result  both  of  the  sharp 
competition  going  on  among  themselves  in  their 
crowded  ranks  and  of  association  with  man.  Thus, 
the  partridge  not  only  covers  her  nest,  but  carefully 
arranges  the  grass  about  it  so  that  no  mark  of  her 
track  to  and  fro  can  be  seen.  The  field  mouse  lays 
up  a  store  of  grain  in  its  den  in  the  ground,  and  then 
stops  up  the  entrance  from  within.  The  woodcock, 
when  disturbed,  flies  away  with  one  of  her  young 
snatched  up  between  her  legs,  and  returns  for  another 
and  another.  The  sea-gulls  devour  the  grain  in  the 
fields  ;  the  wild  ducks  feed  upon  the  oats  ;  the  crows 
and  jackdaws  pull  up  the  sprouts  of  the  newly- 
planted  potatoes ;  the  grouse,  partridges,  pigeons, 
fieldfares,  etc.,  attack  the  turnips  ;  the  hawk  fre- 
quently snatches  the  wounded  game  from  under  the 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  205 

gun  of  the  sportsman  ;  the  crows  perch  upon  the  tops 
of  the  chimneys  of  the  houses ;  in  the  East  the  stork 
builds  upon  the  house-tops,  in  the  midst  of  cities  ;  in 
Scotland  the  rats  follow  the  birds  and  the  Highland- 
ers to  the  herring  fisheries  along  the  coast,  and  dis- 
perse with  them  when  the  season  is  over ;  the  eagle 
continues  to  breed  in  the  mountains  with  the  prize 
of  a  guinea  upon  every  egg ;  the  rabbits  have  to  be 
kept  down  with  nets  and  ferrets  ;  the  game  birds  — 
grouse,  partridges,  ducks,  geese — continue  to  swarm 
in  the  face  of  the  most  inveterate  race  of  sportsmen 
under  the  sun,  and  in  a  country  where  it  is  said  the 
crows  destroy  more  game  than  all  the  guns  in  the 
kingdom. 

Many  of  the  wild  birds,  when  incubating,  will 
allow  themselves  to  be  touched  by  the  hand.  The 
fox  frequently  passes  the  day  under  some  covered 
drain  or  under  some  shelving  bank  near  the  farm 
buildings.  The  otter,  which  so  long  ago  disappeared 
from  our  streams,  still  holds  its  own  in  Scotland, 
though  trapped  and  shot  on  all  occasions.  A  mother 
otter  has  been  known  boldly  to  confront  a  man  carry- 
ing off  her  young. 

Thomas  Edward,  the  shoemaker-naturalist  of  Aber- 
deen, relates  many  adventures  he  had  during  his  noc- 
turnal explorations  with  weasels,  polecats,  badgers, 
owls,  rats,  etc.,  in  which  these  creatures  showed  as- 
tonishing boldness  and  audacity.  On  one  occasion, 
a  weasel  actually  attacked  him ;  on  another,  a  polecat 
made  repeated  attempts  to  take  a  moor-hen  from  the 


206  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

breast  pocket  of  his  coat  while  he  was  trying  to  sleep. 
On  still  another  occasion,  while  he  was  taking  a  nap, 
an  owl  robbed  him  of  a  mouse  which  he  wished  to 
take  home  alive,  and  which  was  tied  by  a  string  to 
his  waistcoat.  He  says  he  has  put  his  walking-stick 
into  the  mouth  of  a  fox  just  roused  from  his  lair,  and 
the  fox  worried  the  stick  and  took  it  away  with  him. 
Once,  in  descending  a  precipice,  he  cornered  two 
foxes  upon  a  shelf  of  rock,  when  the  brutes  growled 
at  him  and  showed  their  teeth  threateningly.  As  he 
let  himself  down  to  kick  them  out  of  his  way,  they 
bolted  up  the  precipice  over  his  person.  Along  the 
Scottish  coast,  crows  break  open  shell-fish  by  carry- 
ing them  high  in  the  air  and  letting  them  drop  upon 
the  rocks.  This  is  about  as  thoughtful  a  proceeding 
as  that  of  certain  birds  of  South  Africa,  which  fly 
amid  the  clouds  of  migrating  locusts  and  clip  off  the 
wings  of  the  insects  with  their  sharp  beaks,  causing 
them  to  fall  to  the  ground,  where  they  are  devoured 
at  leisure.  Among  the  Highlands,  the  eagles  live 
upon  hares  and  young  lambs  ;  when  the  shepherds 
kill  the  eagles,  the  hares  increase  so  fast  that  they 
eat  up  all  the  grass,  and  the  flocks  still  suffer. 

The  scenes  along  the  coast  of  Scotland  during  the 
herring-fishing,  as  described  by  Charles  St.  John  in 
his  "  Natural  History  and  Sport  in  Moray,"  are  char- 
acteristic. The  herrings  appear  in  innumerable 
shoals,  and  are  pursued  by  tens  of  thousands  of  birds 
in  the  air,  and  by  the  hosts  of  their  enemies  of  the 
deep.  Salmon  and  dog-fish  prey  upon  them  from 


BRITISH   FERTILITY 


beneath ;  gulls,  gannets,  cormorants,  and  solan-geese 
prey  upon  them  from  above ;  while  the  fishermen 
from  a  vast  fleet  of  boats  scoop  them  up  by  the  mill- 
ion. The  birds  plunge  and  scream,  the  men  shout 
and  labor,  the  sea  is  covered  with  broken  and 
wounded  fish,  the  shore  exhales  the  odor  of  the  de- 
caying offal,  which  also  attracts  the  birds  and  the 
vermin ;  and,  altogether,  the  scene  is  thoroughly 
European.  Yet  the  herring  supply  does  not  fail ; 
and  when  the  shoals  go  into  the  lochs,  the  people  say 
they  contain  two  parts  fish  to  one  of  water. 

One  of  the  most  significant  facts  I  observed  while 
in  England  and  Scotland  was  the  number  of  eggs  in 
the  birds'-nests.  The  first  nest  I  saw,  which  was 
that  of  the  meadow  pipit,  held  six  eggs ;  the  second, 
which  was  that  of  the  willow  warbler,  contained 
seven.  Are  these  British  birds  then,  I  said,  like  the 
people,  really  more  prolific  than  our  own  ?  Such  is, 
undoubtedly,  the  fact.  The  nests  I  had  observed 
were  not  exceptional ;  and  when  a  boy  told  me  he 
knew  of  a  wren's  nest  with  twenty-six  eggs  in  it,  I 
was  half  inclined  to  believe  him.  The  common  Brit- 
ish wren,  which  is  nearly  identical  with  our  winter 
wren,  often  does  lay  upward  of  twenty  eggs,  while 
ours  lays  from  five  to  six.  The  long-tailed  titmouse 
lays  from  ten  to  twelve  eggs ;  the  marsh  tit  from 
eight  to  ten  ;  the  great  tit  from  six  to  nine ;  the 
blue-bonnet  from  six  to  eighteen  ;  the  wryneck  often 
as  many  as  ten ;  the  nut-hatch,  seven ;  the  brown 
creeper,  nine ;  the  kinglet,  eight ;  the  robin,  seven ; 


208  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

the  fly-catcher,  eight ;  and  so  on ;  all  or  nearly  all 
exceeding  the  number  laid  by  corresponding  species 
in  this  country.  The  highest  number  of  eggs  of  the 
majority  of  our  birds  is  five  ;  some  of  the  wrens  and 
creepers  and  titmice  occasionally  produce  six,  or 
even  more ;  but  as  a  rule  one  sees  only  three  or  four 
eggs  in  the  nests  of  our  common  birds.  Our  quail 
seems  to  produce  more  eggs  than  the  European  spe- 
cies, and  our  swift  more. 

Then  this  superabundance  of  eggs  is  protected  by 
such  warm  and  compact  nests.  The  nest  of  the  wil- 
low warbler,  to  which  I  have  referred,  is  a  kind  of 
thatched  cottage  upholstered  with  feathers.  It  is 
placed  upon  the  ground,  and  is  dome -shaped,  like 
that  of  our  meadow  mouse,  the  entrance  being  on  the 
side.  The  chaffinch,  the  most  abundant  and  univer- 
sal of  the  British  birds,  builds  a  nest  in  the  white 
thorn  that  is  a  marvel  of  compactness  and  neatness. 
It  is  made  mainly  of  fine  moss  and  wool.  The  nest 
of  Jenny  Wren,  with  its  dozen  or  more  of  eggs,  is 
too  perfect  for  art,  and  too  cunning  for  nature. 
Those  I  saw  were  placed  amid  the  roots  of  trees  on 
a  steep  bank  by  the  roadside.  You  behold  a  mass 
of  fine  green  moss  set  in  an  irregular  frame-work  of 
roots,  with  a  round  hole  in  the  middle  of  it.  As  far 
in  as  your  finger  can  reach,  it  is  exquisitely  soft  and 
delicately  modeled.  When  removed  from  its  place, 
it  is  a  large  mass  of  moss  with  the  nest  at  the  heart 
of  it. 

Then  add  to  these  things  the  comparative  immu- 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  209 

nity  from  the  many  dangers  that  beset  the  nests  of 
our  birds,  —  dangers  from  squirrels,  snakes,  crows, 
owls,  weasels,  etc.,  and  from  violent  storms  and  tem- 
pests,—  and  one  can  quickly  see  why  the  British 
birds  so  thrive  and  abound.  There  is  a  chaffinch  for 
every  tree,  and  a  crow  and  a  starling  for  every 
square  rod  of  ground.  I  think  there  would  be  still 
more  starlings  if  they  could  find  places  to  build  ;  but 
every  available  spot  is  occupied;  every  hole  in  a 
wall,  or  tower,  or  tree,  or  stump ;  every  niche  about 
the  farm  buildings ;  every  throat  of  the  grinning 
gargoyles  about  the  old  churches  and  cathedrals ; 
every  cranny  in  towers  and  steeples  and  castle  para- 
pet, and  the  mouth  of  every  rain-spout  and  gutter  in 
which  they  can  find  a  lodgment. 

The  ruins  of  the  old  castles  afford  a  harbor  to 
many  species,  the  most  noticeable  of  which  are  spar- 
rows, starlings,  doves,  and  swallows.  Rochester  Cas- 
tle, the  main  tower  or  citadel  of  which  is  yet  in  a 
good  state  of  preservation,  is  one  vast  dove-cot.  The 
woman  in  charge  told  me  there  were  then  about  six 
hundred  doves  there.  They  whitened  the  air  as  they 
flew  and  circled  about.  From  time  to  time  they  are 
killed  off  and  sent  to  market.  At  sundown,  after  the 
doves  had  gone  to  roost,  the  swifts  appeared,  seeking 
out  their  crannies.  For  a  few  moments  the  air  was 
dark  with  them. 

Look  also  at  the  crows,  or  rooks  as  they  are  usu- 
ally called.  They  follow  the  plowmen  like  chickens, 
picking  up  the  grubs  and  worms ;  and  chickens  they 
14 


210  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

are,  sable  farm  fowls  of  a  wider  range.  Young  rooks 
are  esteemed  a  great  delicacy.  The  four-and-twenty 
blackbirds  baked  in  a  pie,  and  set  before  the  king,  of 
the  nursery  rhyme,  were  very  likely  four-and-twenty 
young  crows.  Crow-pie  is  a  national  dish,  and  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  young  birds  are  slaughtered  in 
sufficient  numbers  to  exterminate  the  species  in  a  few 
years.  But  they  have  to  be  kept  under,  like  the  rab- 
bits ;  inasmuch  as  they  do  not  emigrate,  like  the  peo- 
ple. I  had  heard  vaguely  that  our  British  cousins 
eschewed  all  pie  except  crow-pie,  but  I  did  not  fully 
realize  the  fact  till  I  saw  them  shooting  the  young 
birds  and  shipping  them  to  market.  A  rookery  in 
one's  grove  or  shade  trees  may  be  quite  a  source  of 
profit.  The  young  birds  are  killed  just  before  they 
are  able  to  fly,  and  when  they  first  venture  upon  the 
outer  rim  of  the  nest  or  perch  upon  the  near  branches. 
I  witnessed  this  chicken-killing  in  a  rookery  on  the 
banks  of  the  Doon.  The  ruins  of  an  old  castle 
crowned  the  height  overgrown  with  forest  trees.  In 
these  trees  the  crows  nested,  much  after  the  fashion 
of  our  wild  pigeons.  A  young  man  with  a  rifle  was 
having  a  little  sport  by  shooting  the  young  crows  for 
the  gamekeeper.  There  appeared  to  be  fewer  than 
a  hundred  nests,  and  yet  I  was  told  that  as  many  as 
thirty  dozen  young  crows  had  been  shot  there  that 
season.  During  the  firing  the  parent  birds  circle 
high  aloft,  uttering  their  distressed  cries.  Appar- 
ently, no  attempt  is  made  to  conceal  the  nests ;  they 
are  placed  far  out  upon  the  branches,  several  close 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  211 

together,  showing  as  large  dense  masses  of  sticks  and 
twigs.  Year  after  year  the  young  are  killed,  and  yet 
the  rookery  is  not  abandoned,  nor  the  old  birds  dis- 
couraged. It  is  to  be  added  that  this  species  is  not 
the  carrion  crow,  like  ours,  though  so  closely  resem- 
bling it  in  appearance.  It  picks  up  its  subsistence 
about  the  fields,  and  is  not  considered  an  unclean 
bird.  The  British  carrion  crow  is  a  much  more  rare 
species.  It  is  a  strong,  fierce  bird,  and  often  attacks 
and  kills  young  lambs  or  rabbits. 

What  is  true  of  the  birds  is  true  of  the  rabbits,  and 
probably  of  the  other  smaller  animals.  The  British 
rabbit  breeds  seven  times  a  year,  and  usually  pro- 
duces eight  young  at  a  litter ;  while,  so  far  as  I  have 
observed,  the  corresponding  species  in  this  country 
breeds  not  more  than  twice,  producing  from  three  to 
four  young.  The  western  gray  rabbit  (Lepus  silvat- 
icus)  is  said  to  produce  three  or  four  broods  a  year 
of  four  to  six  young.  It  is  calculated  that  in  Eng- 
land a  pair  of  rabbits  will,  in  the  course  of  four 
years,  multiply  to  one  million  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand.  If  unchecked  for  one  season,  this  game 
would  eat  the  farmers  up.  In  the  parks  of  the  Duke 
of  Hamilton,  the  rabbits  were  so  numerous  that  I 
think  one  might  have  fired  a  gun  at  random  with  his 
eyes  closed  and  knocked  them  over.  They  scam- 
pered right  and  left  as  I  advanced,  like  leaves  blown 
by  the  wind.  Their  cotton  tails  twinkled  thicker 
than  fireflies  in  our  summer  night.  In  the  Highlands, 
where  there  were  cultivated  lands,  and  in  various 


212  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

other  parts  of  England  and  Scotland  that  I  visited, 
they  were  more  abundant  than  chipmunks  in  our 
beechen  woods.  The  revenue  derived  from  the  sale 
of  the  ground  game  on  some  estates  is  an  important 
item.  The  rabbits  are  slaughtered  in  untold  num- 
bers throughout  the  island.  They  shoot  them,  and 
mint  them  with  ferrets,  and  catch  them  in  nets  and 
gins  and  snares,  and  they  are  the  principal  game  of 
the  poacher,  and  yet  the  land  is  alive  with  them. 
Thirty  million  skins  are  used  up  annually  in  Great 
Britain,  besides  several  million  hare  skins.  The  fur 
is  used  for  stuffing  beds,  and  is  also  made  into  yarn 
and  cloth. 

But  the  Colorado  beetle  is  our  own,  and  it  shows 
many  of  the  European  virtues.  It  is  sufficiently  pro- 
lific and  persistent  to  satisfy  any  standard ;  but  we 
cannot  claim  all  the  qualities  for  it  till  it  has  crossed 
the  Atlantic  and  established  itself  on  the  other  side. 

There  are  other  forms  of  life  in  which  we  surpass 
the  mother  country.  I  did  not  hear  the  voice  of  frog 
or  toad  while  I  was  in  England.  Their  marshes 
were  silent ;  their  summer  nights  were  voiceless.  I 
longed  for  the  multitudinous  chorus  of  my  own  bog ; 
for  the  tiny  silver  bells  of  our  hyloides,  the  long- 
drawn  and  soothing  tr-r-r-r-r  of  our  twilight  toads, 
and  the  rattling  drums,  kettle  and  bass,  of  our  pond 
frogs.  Their  insect  world,  too,  is  far  behind  ours ; 
no  fiddling  grasshoppers,  no  purring  tree-crickets,  no 
scraping  katydids,  no  whirring  cicadas  ;  no  sounds 
from  any  of  these  sources  by  meadow  or  grove,  by 


BRITISH  FERTILITY.  213 

night  or  day,  that  I  could  ever  hear.  We  have  a 
large  orchestra  of  insect  musicians,  ranging  from  that 
tiny  performer  that  picks  the  strings  of  his  instru- 
ment so  daintily  in  the  summer  twilight,  to  the  shrill 
and  piercing  crescendo  of  the  harvest-fly.  A  young 
Englishman  who  had  traveled  over  this  country  told 
me  he  thought  we  had  the  noisiest  nature  in  the 
world.  English  midsummer  nature  is  the  other  ex- 
treme of  stillness.  The  long  twilight  is  unbroken  by 
a  sound,  unless  in  places  by  the  "  clanging  rookery." 
The  British  bumble-bee,  a  hairy,  short-waisted  fellow, 
has  the  same  soft,  mellow  bass  as  our  native  bee,  and 
his  habits  appear  much  the  same,  except  that  he  can 
stand  the  cold  and  the  wet  much  better  (I  used  to  see 
them  very  lively  after  sundown,  when  I  was  shiver- 
ing with  my  overcoat  on),  and  digs  his  own  hole 
like  the  rabbit,  which  ours  does  not.  Sitting  in  the 
woods  one  day,  a  bumble-bee  alighted  near  me  on  the 
ground,  and,  scraping  away  the  surface  mould,  began 
to  bite  and  dig  his  way  into  the  earth  —  a  true  Brit- 
isher, able  to  dig  his  own  hole. 

In  the  matter  of  squirrel  life,  too,  we  are  far  ahead 
of  England.  I  believe  there  are  more  red  squirrels, 
to  say  nothing  of  gray  squirrels,  flying  squirrels,  and 
chipmunks,  within  half  a  mile  of  my  house  than  in 
any  county  in  England.  In  all  my  loitering  and 
prying  about  the  woods  and  groves  there  I  saw  but 
two  squirrels.  The  species  is  larger  than  ours, 
longer  and  softer  furred,  and  appears  to  have  little 
of  the  snickering,  frisking,  attitudinizing  manner  of 


214  BRITISH  FERTILITY. 

the  American  species.  But  England  is  the  paradise 
of  snails.  The  trail  of  the  snail  is  over  all.  1  have 
counted  a  dozen  on  the  bole  of  a  single  tree.  I  have 
seen  them  hanging  to  the  bushes  and  hedges  like  fruit. 
I  heard  a  lady  complain  that  they  got  into  the  kitchen, 
crawling  about  by  night  and  hiding  by  day,  and  baf- 
fling her  efforts  to  rid  herself  of  them.  The  thrushes 
eat  them,  breaking  their  shells  upon  a  stone.  They 
are  said  to  be  at  times  a  serious  pest  in  the  garden, 
devouring  the  young  plants  at  night.  When  did  the 
American  snail  devour  anything,  except,  perhaps, 
now  and  then  a  strawberry?  The  bird  or  other 
creature  that  feeds  on  the  large  black  snail  of  Brit- 
ain, if  such  there  be,  need  never  go  hungry,  for  I  saw 
these  snails  even  on  the  tops  of  mountains. 

The  same  opulence  of  life  that  characterizes  the 
animal  world  in  England  characterizes  the  vegetable. 
I  was  especially  struck,  not  so  much  with  the  variety 
of  wild  flowers,  as  with  their  numbers  and  wide  dis- 
tribution. The  ox-eye  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are 
good  samples  of  the  fecundity  of  most  European 
plants.  The  fox-glove,  the  corn-poppy,  the  speedwell, 
the  wild  hyacinth,  the  primrose,  the  various  vetches, 
and  others  grow  in  nearly  the  same  profusion.  The 
forget-me-not  is  very  common,  and  the  little  daisy  is 
nearly  as  universal  as  the  grass.  Indeed,  as  I  have 
already  stated  in  another  chapter,  nearly  all  the  Brit- 
ish wild  flowers  seemed  to  grow  in  the  open  manner 
and  in  the  same  abundance  as  our  golden-rods  and 
purple  asters.  They  show  no  shyness,  no  wildness. 


BRITISH  FERTILITY. 


215 


Nature  is  not  stingy  of  them,  but  fills  her  lap  with 
each  in  its  turn.  Rare  and  delicate  plants,  like  our 
arbutus,  certain  of  our  orchids  and  violets,  that  hide 
in  the  woods  and  are  very  fastidious  and  restricted  in 
their  range,  probably  have  no  parallel  in  England. 
The  island  is  small,  is  well  assorted  and  compacted, 
and  is  thoroughly  homogeneous  in  its  soil  and  cli- 
mate ;  the  conditions  of  field  and  forest  and  stream 
that  exist  have  long  existed ;  a  settled  permanence 
and  equipoise  prevail ;  every  creature  has  found  its 
place,  every  plant  its  home.  There  are  no  new  ex- 
periments to  be  made,  no  new  risks  to  be  run ;  life 
in  all  its  forms  is  established,  and  its  current  main- 
tains a  steady  strength  and  fullness  that  an  observer 
from  our  spasmodic  hemisphere  is  sure  to  appreciate. 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 
I. 

WHILE  in  London  I  took  a  bright  Sunday  after- 
noon to  visit  Chelsea,  and  walk  along  Cheyne  Row 
and  look  upon  the  house  in  which  Carlyle  passed 
nearly  fifty  years  of  his  life  and  in  which  he  died. 
Many  times  I  paced  to  and  fro.  I  had  been  there 
eleven  years  before,  but  it  was  on  a  dark,  rainy  night, 
and  I  had  brought  away  no  image  of  the  street  or 
house.  The  place  now  had  a  more  humble  and  neg- 
lected look  than  I  expected  to  see ;  nothing  that  sug- 
gested it  had  ever  been  the  abode  of  the  foremost 
literary  man  of  his  time,  but  rather  the  home  of  plain, 
obscure  persons  of  little  means.  One  would  have 
thought  that  the  long  residence  there  of  such  a  man 
as  Carlyle  would  have  enhanced  the  value  of  real 
estate  for  many  squares  around,  and  drawn  men  of 
wealth  and  genius  to  that  part  of  the  city.  The  Car- 
lyle house  was  unoccupied,  and  with  its  closed  shut- 
ters, and  little  pools  of  black  sooty  water  standing  in 
the  brick  area  in  front  of  the  basement  windows, 
looked  dead  and  deserted  indeed.  But  the  house  it- 
self, though  nearly  two  hundred  years  old,  showed  no 


220  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

signs  of  decay.  It  had  doubtless  witnessed  the  ex- 
tinction of  many  households  before  that  of  the  Car- 
lyles. 

My  own  visit  to  that  house  was  in  one  autumn 
night  in  1871.  Carlyle  was  then  seventy-six  years 
old,  his  wife  had  been  dead  five  years,  his  work  was 
done,  and  his  days  were  pitifully  sad.  He  was  out 
taking  his  after-dinner  walk  when  we  arrived,  Mr. 
Con  way  and  I ;  most  of  his  walking  and  riding,  it 
seems,  was  done  after  dark,  an  indication  in  itself  of 
the  haggard  and  melancholy  frame  of  mind  habitual 
to  him.  He  presently  appeared,  wrapped  in  a  long 
gray  coat  that  fell  nearly  to  the  floor.  His  greeting 
was  quiet  and  grandfatherly,  and  that  of  a  man  bur- 
dened with  his  own  sad  thoughts.  I  shall  never  for- 
get the  impression  his  large,  long,  soft  hand  made  in 
mine,  nor  the  look  of  sorrow  and  suffering  stamped 
upon  the  upper  part  of  the  face  —  sorrow  mingled 
with  yearning  compassion.  The  eyes  were  bleared 
and  filmy  with  unshed  and  unshedable  tears.  In 
pleasing  contrast  to  his  coarse  hair  and  stiff,  bristly, 
iron-gray  beard,  was  the  fresh,  delicate  color  that  just 
touched  his  brown  cheeks,  like  the  tinge  of  poetry 
that  plays  over  his  own  rugged  page.  I  noted  a  cer- 
tain shyness  and  delicacy  too  in  his  manner,  which 
contrasted  in  the  same  way  with  what  is  alleged  of 
his  rudeness  and  severity.  He  leaned  his  head  upon 
his  hand,  the  fingers  thrust  up  through  the  hair,  and 
with  his  elbow  resting  upon  the  table  looked  across 
to  my  companion,  who  kept  the  conversation  going. 


A   SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW.  221 

This  attitude  he  hardly  changed  during  the  two  hours 
we  sat  there.  How  serious  and  concerned  he  looked, 
and  how  surprising  that  hearty,  soliloquizing  sort  of 
laugh  which  now  and  then  came  from  him  as  he 
talked,  not  so  much  a  laugh  provoked  by  anything 
humorous  in  the  conversation,  as  a  sort  of  foil  to  his 
thoughts,  as  one  might  say,  after  a  severe  judgment, 
"  Ah,  well-a-day,  what  matters  it ! "  If  that  laugh 
could  have  been  put  in  his  Latter-day  Pamphlets, 
where  it  would  naturally  come,  or  in  his  later  political 
tracts,  these  publications  would  have  given  much  less 
offense.  But  there  was  amusement  in  his  laugh  when 
I  told  him  we  had  introduced  the  English  sparrow  iu 
America.  "  Introduced  !  "  he  repeated,  and  laughed 
again.  He  spoke  of  the  bird  as  a  "  comical  little 
wretch,"  and  feared  we  would  regret  the  "  introduc- 
tion." He  repeated  an  Arab  proverb  which  says  Solo- 
mon's Temple  was  built  amid  the  chirping  of  ten 
thousand  sparrows,  and  applied  it  very  humorously  in 
the  course  of  his  talk  to  the  human  sparrows  that  al- 
ways stand  ready  to  chirrup  and  cackle  down  every 
great  undertaking.  He  had  seen  a  cat  walk  slowly 
along  the  top  of  a  fence  while  a  row  of  sparrows 
seated  upon  a  ridge-board  near  by  all  pointed  at  her 
and  chattered  and  scolded,  and  by  unanimous  vote 
pronounced  her  this  and  that,  but  the  cat  went  on 
her  way  all  the  same.  The  verdict  of  majorities  was 
not  always  very  formidable,  however  unanimous. 

A  monument  had  recently  been   erected  to  Scott 
iu  Edinburgh,  and  he  had  been  asked  to  take  part  in 


222  A   SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

some  attendant  ceremony.  But  he  had  refused  per- 
emptorily. "If  the  angel  Gabriel  had  summoned 
me  I  would  not  haye  gone,"  he  said.  It  was  too  soon 
to  erect  a  monument  to  Scott.  Let  them  wait  a  hun- 
dred years  and  see  how  they  feel  about  it  then.  He 
had  never  met  Scott ;  the  nearest  he  had  come  to  it 
was  once  when  he  was  the  bearer  of  a  message  to 

o 

him  from  Goethe :  he  had  rung  at  his  door  with  some 
trepidation,  and  was  relieved  when  told  that  the 
great  man  was  out.  Not  long  afterwards  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  him  while  standing  in  the  streets  of  Edin- 
burgh. He  saw  a  large  wagon  coining  drawn  by 
several  horses,  and  containing  a  great  many  people, 
and  there  in  the  midst  of  them,  full  of  talk  aud  hilar- 
ity like  a  great  boy,  sat  Scott.  Carlyle  had  recently 
returned  from  his  annual  visit  to  Scotland,  and  was 
full  of  sad  and  tender  memories  of  his  native  land, 
He  was  a  man  in  whom  every  beautiful  thing  awak- 
ened melancholy  thoughts.  He  spoke  of  the  bloom- 
ing lasses  and  the  crowds  of  young  people  he  had 
seen  on  the  streets  of  some  northern  city,  Aberdeen, 
I  think,  as  having  filled  him  with  sadness ;  a  kind  of 
homesickness  of  the  soul  was  upon  him,  and  deepened 
with  age,  —  a  solitary  and  a  bereaved  man  from  first 
to  last. 

As  I  walked  Cheyne  Row  that  summer  Sunday 
my  eye  rested  again  and  again  upon  those  three 
stone  steps  that  led  up  to  the  humble  door,  each  hol- 
lowed out  by  the  attrition  of  the  human  foot,  the 
middle  one,  where  the  force  of  the  footfall  would  be 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  223 

greatest,  most  deeply  worn  of  all  —  worn  by  hun- 
dreds of  famous  feet,  and  many,  many  more  not  fa- 
mous.    Nearly  every  notable   literary   man   of   the 
century,  both  of  England  and  America,  had  trod  those 
steps.    Emerson's  foot  had  left  its  mark  there,  if  one 
could  have  seen  it,  once  in  his  prime  and  again  in  his 
old  age,  and  it  was  perhaps  of  him  I  thought,  and  of 
his  new-made  grave  there  under  the  pines  at  Concord, 
that  summer  afternoon  as  I  mused  to  and  fro,  more 
than  of  any  other  visitor  to  that  house.    "  Here  we  are 
shoveled  together  again,"  said  Carlyle  from  behind 
his  wife,  with  a  lamp  high  in  his  hand,  that  October 
night  thirty-seven  years  ago,  as  Jane  opened  the  door 
to  Emerson.     The  friendship,  the  love  of  those  two 
men  for  each  other,  as  revealed  in  their  published 
correspondence,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  episodes 
in  English  literary  history.     The  correspondence  was 
opened  and  invited  by  Emerson,  but  as  years  went  by 
it  is  plain  that  it  became  more  and  more  a  need  and 
a  solace  to  Carlyle.     There  is  something  quite  pa- 
thetic in  the  way  he  clung  to  Emerson  and  entreated 
him  for  a  fuller  and  more  frequent  evidence  of  his 
love.    The  New   Englander,  in   some  ways,  appears 
stinted  and  narrow  beside  him ;  Carlyle  was  much  the 
more  loving  and  emotional   man.     He  had  less  self- 
complacency  than  Emerson,  was  much  less   stoical, 
and  felt  himself  much  more  alone  in  the  world.     Em- 
erson was  genial  and  benevolent  from  temperament 
and   habit;    Carlyle  was  wrathful    and  vituperative, 
while  his  heart  was  really  bursting  with  sympathy 


224  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

and  love.  The  savagest  man,  probably,  in  the  world 
in  his  time,  who  had  anything  like  his  enormous  fund 
of  tenderness  and  magnanimity  He  was  full  of  con- 
tempt for  the  mass  of  mankind,  but  he  was  capable  of 
loving  particular  men  with  a  depth  and  an  intensity 
that  more  than  makes  the  account  good.  And  let 
ni«j  say  here  that  the  saving  feature  about  Carlyle's 
contempt,  which  is  such  a  stumbling-block  till  one 
has  come  to  understand  it,  is  its  perfect  sincerity  and 
inevitableness,  and  the  real  humility  in  which  it  has 
its  root.  He  cannot  help  it ;  it  is  genuine  and  has  a 
kind  of  felicity.  Then  there  is  no  malice  or  ill-will 
in  it,  but  pity  rather,  and  pity  springs  from  love.  We 
also  know  that  he  is  always  dominated  by  the  inex- 
orable conscience,  and  that  the  standard  by  which  he 
tries  men  is  the  standard  of  absolute  rectitude  and 
worthiness.  Contempt  without  love  and  humility  be- 
gets a  sneering,  mocking,  deriding  habit  of  mind, 
which  was  far  enough  from  Carlyle's  sorrowing  de- 
nunciations. "  The  quantity  of  sorrow  he  has,  does 
it  not  mean  withal  the  quantity  of  sympathy  he  has, 
the  quantity  of  faculty  and  victory  he  shall  yet  have  ? 
*  Our  sorrow  is  the  inverted  image  of  our  nobleness.' 
The  depth  of  our  despair  measures  what  capability, 
and  height  of  claim  we  have,  to  hope."  (Cromwell.) 
Emerson  heard  many  responding  voices,  touched  and 
won  many  hearts,  but  Carlyle  was  probably  admired 
and  feared  more  than  he  was  loved,  and  love  he 
needed  and  valued  above  all  else.  Hence  his  pa- 
thetic appeals  to  Emerson,  the  one  man  he  felt  sure 


A  SUNDAY   IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 


225 


of,  the  one  voice  that  reached  him  and  moved  him 
among  his  contemporaries.  He  felt  Emerson's  se- 
renity and  courage,  and  seemed  to  cling  to,  while  he 
ridiculed,  that  New  World  hope  that  shone  in  him  so 
brightly. 

The  ship  that  carries  the  most  sail  is  most  buf- 
feted by  the  winds  and  storms.  Carlyle  carried  more 
sail  than  Emerson  did,  and  the  very  winds  of  the 
globe  he  confronted  and  opposed;  the  one  great 
movement  of  the  modern  world,  the  democratic 
movement,  the  coming  forward  of  the  people  in  their 
own  right,  he  assailed  and  ridiculed  in  a  vocabulary 
the  most  copious  and  telling  that  was  probably  ever 
used,  and  with  a  concern  and  a  seriousness  most  im- 
pressive. 

Much  as  we  love  and  revere  Emerson  and  immeas- 
urable as  his  service  has  been,  especially  to  the 
younger  and  more  penetrating  minds,  I  think  it  will 
not  do  at  all  to  say,  as  one  of  our  critics  (Mr.  Sted- 
man)  has  lately  said,  that  Emerson  is  as  "  far  above 
Carlyle  as  the  affairs  of  the  soul  and  universe  are 
above  those  of  the  contemporary,  or  even  the  historic, 
world."  Above  him  he  certainly  was,  in  a  thinner, 
colder  air,  but  not  in  any  sense  that  implies  greater 
power  or  a  farther  range.  His  sympathies  with  the 
concrete  world  and  his  gripe  upon  it  were  far  less 
than  Carlyle's.  He  bore  no  such  burden,  he  fought 
no  such  battle,  as  the  latter  did.  His  mass,  his  ve- 
locity, his  penetrating  power,  are  far  less.  A  tran- 
quil, high-sailing,  fair-weather  cloud  is  Emerson,  and 
15 


226  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

a  massive,  heavy-laden  storm-cloud  is  Carlyle.  Car- 
lyle  was  never  placidly  sounding  the  azure  depths 
like  Emerson,  but  always  pouring  and  rolling  earth- 
ward, with  wind,  thunder,  rain,  and  hail.  He  reaches 
up  to  the  Emersonian  altitudes,  but  seldom  disports 
himself  there ;  never  loses  himself,  as  Emerson  some- 
times does ;  the  absorption  takes  place  in  the  other 
direction;  he  descends  to  actual  affairs  and  events 
with  fierce  precipitation.  Carlyle's  own  verdict,  writ- 
ten in  his  journal  on  Emerson's  second  visit  to  him 
in  1848,  was  much  to  the  same  effect,  and,  allowing 
for  the  Carlylean  exaggeration,  was  true.  He  wrote 
that  Emerson  differed  as  much  from  himself  "  as  a 
gymno sophist  sitting  idle  on  a  flowery  bank  may  do 
from  a  wearied  worker  and  wrestler  passing  that  way 
with  many  of  his  bones  broken." 

All  men  would  choose  Emerson's  fate,  Emerson's 
history ;  how  rare,  how  serene,  how  inspiring,  how 
beautiful,  how  fortunate  !  But  as  between  these  two 
friends,  our  verdict  must  be  that  Carlyle  did  the  more 
unique  and  difficult,  the  more  heroic,  piece  of  work. 
Whether  the  more  valuable  and  important  or  not,  it  is 
perhaps  too  early  in  the  day  to  say,  but  certainly  the 
more  difficult  and  masterful.  As  an  artist,  using  the 
term  in  the  largest  sense,  as  the  master-worker  in,  and 
shaper  of,  the  Concrete,  he  is  immeasurably  Emer- 
son's superior.  Emerson's  two  words  were  truth  and 
beauty,  which  lie,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  plane,  and 
the  passage  from  one  to  the  other  is  easy ;  it  is  smooth 
sailing.  Carlyle's  two  words  were  truth  and  duty, 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  BOW.  227 

which  lie  in  quite  different  planes,  and  the  passage 
between  which  is  steep  and  rough.  Hence  the  pain, 
the  struggle,  the  picturesque  power.  Try  to  shape 
the  actual  world  of  politics  and  human  affairs  accord- 
ing to  the  ideal  truth,  and  see  if  you  keep  your  se- 
renity. There  is  a  Niagara  gulf  between  them  that 
must  be  bridged.  But  what  a  gripe  this  man  had 
upon  both  shores,  the  real  and  the  ideal.  The  qual- 
ity of  action,  of  tangible  performance,  that  lies  in 
his  works,  is  unique.  "  He  has  not  so  much  written 
as  spoken,"  and  he  has  not  so  much  spoken  as  he 
has  actually  wrought.  He  experienced,  in  each  of 
his  books,  the  pain  and  the  antagonism  of  the  man 
of  action.  His  mental  mood  and  attitude  are  the 
same;  as  is  also  his  impatience  of  abstractions,  of 
theories,  of  subtleties,  of  mere  words.  Indeed,  Car- 
lyJe  was  essentially  a  man  of  action,  as  he  himself 
seemed  to  think,  driven  by  fate  into  literature.  He 
is  as  real  and  as  earnest  as  Luther  or  Cromwell,  and 
his  faults  are  the  same  in  kind.  Not  the  mere  say- 
ing of  a  thing  satisfies  him  as  it  does  Emerson  ;  you 
must  do  it ;  bring  order  out  of  chaos,  make  the  dead 
alive,  make  the  past  present,  in  some  way  make  your 
fine  sayings  point  to,  or  result  in,  fact.  He  says  the 
Perennial  lies  always  in  the  Concrete.  Subtlety  of 
intellect,  which  conducts  you  "  not  to  new  clearness, 
but  to  ever  -  new  abstruseness,  wheel  within  wheel, 
depth  under  depth,"  has  no  charms  for  him.  "  My 
erudite  friend,  the  astonishing  intellect  that  occupies 
itself  in  splitting  hairs,  and  not  in  twisting  some  kind 


228  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

of  cordage  and  effectual  draught-tackle  to  take  the 
road  with,  is  not  to  me  the  most  astonishing  of  intel- 
lects." 

Emerson  split  no  hairs,  but  he  twisted  very  little 
cordage  for  the  rough  draught-horses  of  this  world. 
He  tells  us  to  hitch  our  wagon  to  a  star ;  and  the 
star  is  without  doubt  a  good  steed,  when  once  fairly 
caught  and  harnessed,  but  it  takes  an  astromomer  to 
catch  it.  The  value  of  such  counsel  is  not  very  tan- 
gible unless  it  awakes  us  to  the  fact  that  every  power 
of  both  heaven  and  earth  is  friendly  to  a  noble  and 
courageous  activity. 

Carlyle  was  impatient  of  Emerson's  fine-spun  sen- 
tences and  transcendental  sleight  of  hand.  Indeed, 
from  a  literary  point  of  view,  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting phases  of  the  published  correspondence  be- 
tween these  two  notable  men  is  the  value  which  each 
unwittingly  set  upon  his  own  methods  and  work. 
Each  would  have  the  other  like  himself. 

Emerson  wants  Emersonian  epigrams  from  Car- 
lyle, and  Carlyle  wants  Carlylean  thunder  from  Em- 
erson. Each  was  unconsciously  his  own  ideal.  The 
thing  which  a  man's  nature  calls  him  to  do,  —  what 
else  so  well  worth  doing?  Certainly  nothing  else  to 
him,  —  but  to  another  ?  How  surely  each  one  of  us 
would  make  our  fellow  over  in  our  own  image.  Car- 
lyle wants  Emerson  more  practical,  more  concrete, 
more  like  himself,  in  short.  "  The  vile  Pythons  of 
this  Mud-world  do  verily  require  to  have  sun-arrows 
shot  into  them,  and  red-hot  pokers  stuck  through 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  229 

them,  according  to  occasion  ; "  do  this  as  I  am  doing 
it,  or  trying  to  do  it,  and  I  shall  like  you  better.  It 
is  well  to  know  that  nature  will  make  good  compost 
of  the  carcass  of  an  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  produce  a 
cart-load  of  turnips  from  the  same ;  but  it  is  better  to 
appreciate  and  make  the  most  of  the  live  Oliver  him- 
self. "  A  faculty  is  in  you  for  a  sort  of  speech  which 
is  itself  action,  an  artistic  sort.  You  tell  us  with 
piercing  emphasis  that  man's  soul  is  great ;  show  us 
a  great  soul  of  a  man,  in  some  work  symbolic  of 
such ;  this  is  the  seal  of  such  a  message,  and  you  will 
feel  by  and  by  that  you  are  called  to  do  this.  I  long 
to  see  some  concrete  Thing,  some  Event,  Man's  Hope, 
American  Forest,  or  piece  of  Creation,  which  this 
Emerson  loves  and  wonders  at,  well  Emersonized, 
depicted  by  Emerson,  filled  with  the  life  of  Emerson 
and  cast  forth  from  him,  then  to  live  by  itself." 
Again  :  "  I  will  have  all  things  condense  themselves, 
take  shape  and  body,  if  they  are  to  have  my  sym- 
pathy ;  I  have  a  body  myself ;  in  the  brown  leaf,  sport 
of  the  Autumn  winds,  I  find  what  mocks  all  prophe- 
syings,  even  Hebrew  ones."  "  Alas,  it  is  so  easy  to 
screw  one's  self  up  into  high  and  even  higher  alti- 
tudes of  Transcendentalism,  and  see  nothing  under 
one  but  the  everlasting  snows  of  Himmalayah,  the 
Earth  shrinking  to  a  Planet,  and  the  indigo  firma- 
ment sowing  itself  with  daylight  stars  ;  easy  for  you, 
for  me  ;  but  whither  does  it  lead  ?  I  dread  always, 
to  inanity  and  mere  injuring  of  the  lungs  ! "  —  with 
more  of  the  same  sort. 


230  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

On  the  other  hand,  Emerson  evidently  tires  of  Car- 
lyle's  long-winded  heroes.  He  would  have  him  give 
us  the  gist  of  the  matter  in  a  few  sentences.  Cre- 
mate your  heroes,  he  seems  to  say ;  get  all  this  gas 
and  water  out  of  them,  and  give  us  the  handful  of 
lime  and  iron  of  which  they  are  composed.  He  hun- 
gered for  the  "  central  monosyllables."  He  praises 
Cromwell  and  Frederick,  yet  says  to  his  friend,  "  that 
book  will  not  come  which  I  most  wish  to  read,  name- 
ly, the  culled  results,  the  quintessence  of  private  con- 
viction, a  liber  veritatis,  a  few  sentences,  hints  of  the 
final  moral  you  drew  from  so  much  penetrating  in- 
quest into  past  and  present  men." 

This  is  highly  characteristic  of  Emerson  ;  his  bid 
for  the  quintessence  of  things.  He  was  always  im- 
patient of  creative  imaginative  works ;  would  sub- 
lunate  or  evaporate  them  in  a  hurry.  Give  him  the 
pith  of  the  matter,  the  net  result  in  the  most  pun- 
gent words.  It  must  still  be  picture  and  parable, 
but  in  a  sort  of  disembodied  or  potential  state.  He 
fed  on  the  marrow  of  Shakespeare's  sentences,  and 
apparently  cared  little  for  his  marvelous  character- 
izations. One  is  reminded  of  the  child's  riddle : 
Under  the  hill  there  is  a  mill,  in  the  mill  there  is  a 
chest,  in  the  chest  there  is  a  till,  in  the  till  there  is 
a  phial,  in  the  phial  there  is  a  drop  I  would  not  give 
for  all  the  world.  This  drop  Emerson  would  have. 
Keep  or  omit  the  chest  and  the  mill  and  all  that  cir- 
cumlocution, and  give  him  the  precious  essence.  But 
the  artistic  or  creative  mind  does  not  want  things 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  231 

thus  abridged,  —  does  not  want  the  universe  reduced 
to  an  epigram.  Carlyle  wants  an  actual  flesh-and- 
blood  hero,  and  what  is  more,  wants  him  immersed 
head  and  ears  in  the  actual  affairs  of  this  world. 

Those  who  seek  to  explain  Carlyle  on  the 
ground  of  his  humble  origin  shoot  wide  of  the  mark. 
"  Merely  a  peasant  with  a  glorified  intellect/'  says  a 
certain  irate  female,  masquerading  as  the  "  Day  of 
Judgment." 

It  seems  to  me  Carlyle  was  as  little  of  a  peasant 
as  any  man  of  his  time,  —  a  man  without  one  peas- 
ant trait  or  proclivity,  a  regal  and  dominating  man, 
"  looking,"  as  he  said  of  one  of  his  own  books,  "king 
and  beggar  in  the  face  with  an  indifference  of  broth- 
erhood and  an  indifference  of  contempt."  The  two 
marks  of  the  peasant  are  stolidity  and  abjectness ; 
he  is  dull  and  heavy,  and  he  dare  not  say  his  soul 
is  his  own.  No  man  ever  so  hustled  and  jostled 
titled  dignitaries,  and  made  them  toe  the  mark,  as 
did  Carlyle.  It  was  not  merely  that  his  intellect  was 
towering ;  it  was  also  his  character,  his  will,  his  stand- 
ard of  manhood  that  was  towering.  He  bowed  to 
the  hero,  to  valor  and  personal  worth,  never  to  titles 
or  conventions.  The  virtues  and  qualities  of  his  yeo- 
man ancestry  were  in  him  without  doubt ;  his  power 
of  application,  the  spirit  of  toil  that  possessed  him, 
his  frugal,  self-denying  habits,  came  from  his  family 
and  race,  but  these  are  not  peasant  traits,  but  heroic 
traits.  A  certain  coarseness  of  fibre  he  had  also,  to- 
gether with  great  delicacy  and  sensibility,  but  these 


232  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

again  he  shares  with  all  strong  first-class  men.  You 
cannot  get  such  histories  as  Cromwell  and  Frederick 
out  of  polished  litterateurs  ;  you  must  have  a  man  of 
the  same  heroic  fibre ;  of  the  same  inexpugnableness 
of  mind  and  purpose.  Not  even  was  Emerson  ade- 
quate to  such  a  task  :  he  was  fine  enough  and  high 
enough,  but  he  was  not  coarse  enough  and  broad 
enough.  The  scholarly  part  of  Carlyle's  work  is 
nearly  always  thrown  in  the  shade  by  the  manly 
part,  the  original  raciness  and  personal  intensity  of 
the  writer.  He  is  not  in  the  least  veiled  or  hidden 
by  his  literary  vestments.  He  is  rather  hampered 
by  them,  and  his  sturdy  Annandale  character  often 
breaks  through  them  in  the  most  surprising  manner. 
His  contemporaries  soon  discovered  that  if  here  was 
a  great  writer,  here  was  also  a  great  man,  come  not 
merely  to  paint  their  pictures,  but  to  judge  them,  to 
weigh  them  in  the  balance.  He  is  eminently  an  art- 
ist, and  yet  it  is  not  the  artistic  or  literary  impulse 
that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  his  works,  but  a  moral, 
human,  emotional  impulse  and  attraction,  —  the  im- 
pulse of  justice,  of  veracity,  or  of  sympathy  and  love. 
What  love  of  work  well  done,  what  love  of  gen- 
uine leadership,  of  devotion  to  duty,  of  mastery  of 
affairs,  in  fact,  what  love  of  man  pure  and  simple, 
lies  at  the  bottom  of  "  Frederick,"  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  "  Cromwell ! "  Here  is  not  the  disinterestedness  of 
Shakespeare,  here  is  not  the  Hellenic  flexibility  of 
mind  and  scientific  impartiality  Mr.  Arnold  demands ; 
here  is  espousal,  here  is  vindication,  here  is  the  moral 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  233 

bias  of  the  nineteenth  century.  But  here  also  is 
reality,  here  is  the  creative  touch,  here  are  men  and 
things  made  alive  again,  palpable  to  the  understand- 
ing and  enticing  to  the  imagination.  Of  all  histories 
that  have  fallen  into  my  hands  "  Frederick "  is  the 
most  vital  and  real.  If  the  current  novels  were  half 
so  entertaining  I  fear  I  should  read  little  else.  The 
portrait-painting  is  like  that  of  Rembrandt;  the  eye 
for  battles  and  battle-fields  is  like  that  of  Napoleon,  or 
Frederick  himself ;  the  sifting  of  events,  and  the  sep- 
arating of  the  false  from  the  true,  is  that  of  the  most 
patient  and  laborious  science ;  the  descriptive  pas- 
sages are  equaled  by  those  of  no  other  man ;  while 
the  work  as  a  whole,  as  Emerson  says,  "  is  a  Judg- 
ment Day,  for  its  moral  verdict,  on  the  men  and  na- 
tions and  manners  of  modern  times."  It  is  to  be 
read  for  its  honest  history ;  it  is  to  be  read  for  its 
inexhaustible  wit  and  humor  ;  it  is  to  be  read  for  its 
poetic  fire,  for  its  felicities  of  style,  for  its  burden  of 
human  sympathy  and  effort,  its  heroic  attractions  and 
stimulating  moral  judgments.  All  Carlyle's  histories 
have  the  quick,  penetrating  glance,  that  stroke  of  the 
eye,  as  the  French  say,  that  lays  the  matter  open  to 
the  heart.  He  did  not  write 'in  the  old  way  of  a 
topographical  survey  of  the  surface ;  his  "  French 
Revolution  "  is  more  like  a  transverse  section  ;  more 
like  a  geologist's  map  than  like  a  geographer's :  the 
depths  are  laid  open ;  the  abyss  yawns ;  the  cosmic 
forces  and  fires  stalk  forth  and  become  visible  and 
real.  It  was  this  power  to  detach  and  dislocate 


234  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

things  and  project  them  against  the  light  of  a  fierce 
and  lurid  imagination  that  makes  his  pages  unique 
and  matchless,  of  their  kind,  in  literature.  He  may 
be  deficient  in  the  historical  sense,  the  sense  of  de- 
velopment, and  of  compensation  in  history ;  but  in 
vividness  of  apprehension  of  men  and  events,  and 
power  of  portraiture,  he  is  undoubtedly  without  a 
rival.  "  Those  devouring  eyes  and  that  portraying 
hand,"  Emerson  says. 

Those  who  contract  their  view  of  Carlyle  till  they 
see  only  his  faults,  do  a  very  unwise  thing.  Nearly 
all  his  great  traits  have  their  shadows.  His  power 
of  characterization  sometimes  breaks  away  into  cari- 
cature ;  his  command  of  the  picturesque  leads  him 
into  the  grotesque ;  his  eloquent  denunciation  at 
times  becomes  vituperation ;  his  marvelous  power  to 
name  things  degenerates  into  outrageous  nick-nam- 
ing ;  his  streaming  humor,  which,  as  Emerson  said, 
floats  every  object  he  looks  upon,  is  not  free  from 
streaks  of  the  most  crabbed,  hide-bound  ill-humor. 
Nearly  every  page  has  a  fringe  of  these  things,  and 
sometimes  a  pretty  broad  one,  but  they  are  by  no 
means  the  main  matter,  and  often  lend  an  additional 
interest.  The  great  personages,  the  great  events, 
are  never  caricatured,  though  painted  with  a  bold, 
free  hand,  but  there  is  in  the  border  of  the  picture 
all  manner  of  impish  and  grotesque  strokes.  In 
"  Frederick  "  there  is  a  whole  series  of  secondary  men 
and  incidents  that  are  touched  off  with  the  hand  of 
a  master  caricaturist.  Some  peculiarity  of  feature 


A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE   ROW.  235  ! 

or  manner  is  seized  upon,  magnified, "and  made  prom- 
inent on  all  occasions.  We  are  never  suffered  to 
forget  George  the  Second's  fish  eyes  and  gartered 
leg,  nor  the  lean  May-pole  mistress  of  George  the 
First,  nor  the  Czarina's  big  fat  cheek,  nor  poor  Bruhl, 
"  vainest  of  human  clothes-horses,"  with  his  twelve 
tailors  and  his  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  suits  of 
clothes,  nor  Augustus,  "  the  dilapidated  strong,"  with 
his  three  hundred  and  fifty-four  bastards.  Nor  can 
any  reader  of  that  work  ever  forget  "Jenkins'  Ear," 
—  the  poor  fraction  of  an  ear  of  an  English  sailor 
snipped  off  by  the  Spaniards,  and  here  made  to  stand 
for  a  whole  series  of  historical  events.  Indeed,  this 
severed  ear  looms  up  till  it  becomes  like  a  sign  in 
the  zodiac  of  those  times.  His  portrait  of  the  French 
army,  which  he  calls  the  Dauphiness,  is  unforgetable, 
and  is  in  the  best  style  of  his  historical  caricature. 
It  makes  its  exit  over  the  Rhine  before  Duke  Ferdi- 
nand, "  much  in  rags,  much  in  disorder,  in  terror,  and 
here  and  there  almost  in  despair,  winging  their  way 
like  clouds  of  draggled  poultry  caught  by  a  mastiff  in 
the  corn.  Across  Weser,  across  Ems,  finally  across 
the  Rhine  itself,  every  feather  of  them,  —  their  long- 
drawn  cackle,  of  a  shrieky  type,  filling  all  nature  in 
those  months."  A  good  sample  of  the  grotesque  in 
Carlyle,  pushed  to  the  last  limit,  and  perhaps  a  little 
beyond,  is  in  this  picture  of  the  Czarina  of  Russia, 
stired  up  to  declare  war  against  Frederick  by  his 
Austrian  enemies.  "  Bombarded  with  cunningly-de- 
vised fabrications,  every  wind  freighted  for  her  with 


236  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

phantasmal  rumors,  no  ray  of  direct  daylight  visiting 
the  poor  Sovereign  Woman  ;  who  is  lazy,  not  ma- 
lignant, if  she  could  avoid  it ;  mainly  a  mass  of  esu- 
rient oil,  with  alkali  on  the  back  of  alkali  poured- 
in,  at  this  rate  for  ten  years  past,  till  by  pouring 
and  by  stirring  they  get  her  to  the  state  of  soap  and 
froth." 

Carlyle  had  a  narrow  escape  from  being  the  most 
formidable  blackguard  the  world  had  ever  seen  ;  was, 
indeed,  in  certain  moods,  a  kind  of  divine  blackguard, 
—  a  purged  and  pious  Rabelais,  who  could  bespatter 
the  devil  with  more  telling  epithets  than  any  other 
man  who  ever  lived.  What  a  tongue,  what  a  vocab- 
ulary !  He  fairly  oxidizes,  burns  up  the  object  of  his 
opprobrium,  in  the  stream  of  caustic  epithets  he  turns 
upon  it.  He  had  a  low  opinion  of  the  contemporaries 
of  Frederick  and  Voltaire ;  they  were  "  mere  ephem- 
era; contemporary  eaters,  scramblers  for  provender, 
talkers  of  acceptable  hearsay ;  and  related  merely  to 
the  butteries  and  wiggeries  of  their  time,  and  not  re- 
lated to  the  Perennialities  at  all,  as  these  two  were." 
He  did  not  have  to  go  very  far  from  home  for  some 
of  the  lineaments  of  Voltaire's  portrait.  "  He  had,  if 
no  big  gloomy  devil  in  him  among  the  bright  angels 
that  were  there,  a  multitude  of  ravening,  tumultuary 
imps,  or  little  devils,  very  ill-chained,  and  was  lodged, 
he  and  his  restless  little  devils,  in  a  skin  far  too  thin 
for  him  and  them  !  " 

Of  Frederick's  cynicism  he  says  there  was  "al- 
ways a  kind  of  vinegar  cleanness  in  it,  except  in 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  237 

theory."  Equally  original  and  felicitous  is  the  "  al- 
buminous simplicity  "  which  he  ascribes  to  the  Welfs. 
Newspaper  men  have  never  forgiven  him  for  calling 
them  the  "  gazetteer  owls  of  Minerva ; "  and  our 
Catholic  brethren  can  hardly  relish  his  reference  to 
the  "  consolations  "  the  nuns  deal  out  to  the  sick  as 
"  poisoned  gingerbread."  In  "  Frederick,"  one  comes 
upon  such  phrases  as  "  milk-faced,"  "  bead-roll  histo- 
ries," "  heavy  pipe-clay  natures,"  a  "  stiff-jointed,  al- 
gebraic kind  of  piety,"  etc. 

Those  who  persist  in  trying  Carlyle  as  a  philoso- 
pher and  man  of  ideas,  miss  his  purport.  He  had  no 
philosophy,  and  laid  claim  to  none,  except  what  he 
got  from  the  German  metaphysicians,  —  views  which 
crop  out  here  and  there  in  "  Sartor."  He  was  a 
preacher  of  righteousness  to  his  generation,  and  a 
rebuker  of  its  shams  and  irreverences,  and  as  such 
he  cut  deep,  cut  to  the  bone,  and  to  the  marrow  of 
the  bone.  That  piercing,  agonized,  prophetic,  yet 
withal  melodious  and  winsome  voice,  how  it  rises 
through  and  above  the  multitudinous  hum  and  clatter 
of  contemporary  voices  in  England,  and  alone  falls 
upon  the  ear  as  from  out  the  primal  depths  of  moral 
conviction  and  power.!  He  is  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  be  reduced  to  a  system  or  tried  by  logical 
tests.  You  might  as  well  try  to  bind  the  sea  with 
chains.  His  appeal  is  to  the  intuitions  the  imagina- 
tion, the  moral  sense.  His  power  of  mental  abstrac- 
tion was  not  great;  he  could  not  deal  in  abstract 
ideas.  When  he  attempted  to  state  his  philosophy, 


238  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

as  in  the  fragment  called  "  Spiritual  Optics,"  which 
Froude  gives,  he  is  far  from  satisfactory.  His  math- 
ematical proficiency  seemed  to  avail  him  but  little 
in  the  region  of  pure  ideality.  His  mind  is  precipi- 
tated at  once  upon  the  concrete,  upon  actual  persons 
and  events.  This  makes  him  the  artist  he  is,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  the  mystic  and  philosopher,  and  is 
perhaps  the  basis  of  Emerson's  remark,  that  there 
is  "  more  character  than  intellect  in  every  sentence ; " 
that  is,  more  motive,  more  will  power,  more  stress 
of  conscience,  more  that  appeals  to  one  as  a  living 
personal  identity,  wrestling  with  facts  and  events, 
than  there  is  that  appeals  to  him  as  a  contemplative 
philosopher. 

Carlyle  owed  everything  to  his  power  of  will  and 
to  his  unflinching  adherence  to  principle.  He  was 
in  no  sense  a  lucky  man,  had  no  good  fortune,  was 
borne  by  no  current,  was  favored  and  helped  by  no 
circumstance  whatever.  His  life  from  the  first  was 
a  steady  pull  against  both  wind  and  tide.  He  con- 
fronted all  the  cherished  thoughts,  beliefs,  tenden- 
cies, of  his  time ;  he  spurned  and  insulted  his  age 
and  country.  No  man  ever  before  poured  out  such 
withering  scorn  upon  his  contemporaries.  Many  of 
his  political  tracts  are  as  blasting  as  the  Satires  of 
Juvenal.  The  opinions  and  practices  of  his  times  in 
politics,  religion,  and  literature,  were  as  a  stubbly, 
brambly  field,  to  which  he  would  fain  apply  the 
match  and  clean  the  ground  for  a  nobler  crop.  He 
would  purge  and  fertilize  the  soil  by  fire.  His  atti 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  239 

tude  was  one  of  warning  and  rebuking.  He  was  re- 
fused every  public  place  he  ever  aspired  to  —  every 
college  and  editorial  chair.  Every  man's  hand  was 
against  him.  He  was  hated  by  the  Whigs,  and 
feared  by  the  Tories.  He  was  poor,  proud,  uncom- 
promising, sarcastic;  he  was  morose,  dyspeptic,  de- 
spondent, compassed  about  by  dragons  and  all  man- 
ner of  evil  menacing  forms ;  in  fact,  the  odds  were 
fearfully  against  him,  and  yet  he  succeeded,  and  suc- 
ceeded on  his  own  terms.  He  fairly  conquered  the 
world  ;  yes,  and  the  flesh  and  the  devil.  But  it  was 
one  incessant,  heroic  struggle  and  wrestle  from  the 
first.  All  through  his  youth  and  his  early  manhood, 
he  was  nerving  himself  for  the  conflict.  Whenever 
he  took  counsel  with  himself  it  was  to  give  his  cour- 
age a  new  fillip.  In  his  letters  to  his  people,  in  his 
private  journal,  in  all  his  meditations,  he  never  loses 
the  opportunity  to  take  a  new  hitch  upon  his  resolu- 
tion, to  screw  his  purpose  up  tighter.  Not  a  mo- 
ment's relaxation,  but  ceaseless  vigilance  and  "des- 
perate hope."  In  1830,  he  says  in  his  journal :  "  Oh, 
I  care  not  for  poverty,  little  even  for  disgrace,  noth- 
ing at  all  for  want  of  renown.  But  the  horrible  feel- 
ing is  when  I  cease  my  own  struggle,  lose  the  con- 
sciousness of  my  own  strength,  and  become  positively 
quite  worldly  and  wicked."  A  year  later  he  wrote : 
"To  it,  thou  Taugenichts!  Gird  thyself !  stir!  strug- 
gle !  forward  !  forward !  Thou  art  bundled  up  here 
and  tied  as  in  a  sack.  On,  then,  as  in  a  sack  race ; 
running,  not  raging !  "  Carlyle  made  no  terms  with 


240  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

himself  nor  with  others.  He  would  not  agree  to 
keep  the  peace ;  he  would  be  the  voice  of  absolute 
conscience,  of  absolute  justice,  come  what  come 
might.  "  Woe  to  them  that  are  at  ease  in  Zion,"  he 
once  said  to  John  Sterling.  The  stern,  uncompromis- 
ing front  which  he  first  turned  to  the  world  he  never 
relaxed  for  a  moment.  He  had  his  way  with  man- 
kind at  all  times ;  or  rather  conscience  had  its  way 
with  him  at  all  times  in  his  relations  with  mankind. 
He  made  no  selfish  demands,  but  ideal  demands. 
Jeffries,  seeing  his  attitude  and  his  earnestness  in  it, 
despaired  of  him  ;  he  looked  upon  him  as  a  man  but- 
ting his  head  against  a  stone  wall ;  he  never  dreamed 
that  the  wall  would  give  way  before  the  head  did.  It 
was  not  mere  obstinacy ;  it  was  not  the  pride  of  opin- 
ion :  it  was  the  thunders  of  conscience,  the  awful 
voice  of  Sinai,  within  him ;  he  dared  not  do  other- 
wise. 

A  selfish  or  self-seeking  man  Carlyle  in  no  sense 
was,  though  it  has  so  often  been  charged  upon  him. 
He  was  the  victim  of  his  own  genius  ;  and  he  made 
others  its  victims,  not  of  his  selfishness.  This  genius 
BO  doubt  came  nearer  the  demon  of  Socrates  than  that 
of  any  modern  man.  He  is  under  its  lash  and  tyr- 
anny from  first  to  last.  But  the  watchword  of  his 
life  was  "  Entsagen"  renunciation,  self-denial,  which 
he  learned  from  Goethe.  His  demon  did  not  possess 
him  lightly,  but  dominated  and  drove  him. 

One  would  as  soon  accuse  St.  Simeon  Stylites, 
thirty  years  at  the  top  of  his  penitential  pillar,  of 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  241 

selfishness.  Seeking  his  own  ends,  following  his  own 
demon,  St.  Simeon  certainly  was ;  but  seeking  his 
ease  or  pleasure,  or  animated  by  any  unworthy,  igno- 
ble purpose,  he  certainly  was  not.  No  more  was 
Carlyle,  each  one  of  whose  books  was  a  sort  of 
pillar  of  penitence  or  martyrdom  atop  of  which  he 
wrought  and  suffered,  shut  away  from  the  world, 
renouncing  its  pleasures  and  prizes,  wrapped  in  deep- 
est gloom  and  misery,  and  wrestling  with  all  manner 
of  real  and  imaginary  demons  and  hindrances.  Dur- 
ing his  last  great  work,  —  the  thirteen  years  spent  in 
his  study  at  the  top  of  his  house,  writing  the  history 
of  Frederick,  —  this  isolation,  this  incessant  toil  and 
penitential  gloom,  were  such  as  only  religious  devo- 
tees have  voluntarily  imposed  upon  themselves. 

If  Carlyle  was  "ill  to  live  with,"  as  his  mother 
said,  it  was  not  because  he  was  selfish.  He  was  a 
man,  to  borrow  one  of  Emerson's  early  phrases,  "  in- 
flamed to  a  fury  of  personality."  He  must  of  neces- 
sity assert  himself ;  he  is  shot  with  great  velocity ;  he 
is  keyed  to  an  extraordinary  pitch ;  and  it  was  this, 
this  raging  fever  of  individuality,  if  any  namable 
trait  or  quality,  rather  than  anything  lower  in  the 
scale,  that  often  made  him  an  uncomfortable  compan- 
ion and  neighbor. 

And  it  may  be  said  here  that  his  wife  had  the 
same  complaint,  and  had  it  bad,  the  feminine  form  of 
it,  and  without  the  vent  and  assuagement  of  it  that 
her  husband  found  in  literature.  Little  wonder  that 
between  two  such  persons  living  childless  together 
16 


242  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

for  forty  years,  each  assiduously  cultivating  their  sen- 
sibilities and  idiosyncrasies,  there  should  have  been 
more  or  less  friction.  Both  sarcastic,  quick-witted, 
plain-spoken,  sleepless,  addicted  to  morphia  and  blue- 
pills,  nerves  all  on  the  outside ;  the  wife  without  any 
occupation  adequate  to  her  genius,  the  husband  toil- 
ing like  Hercules  at  his  tasks  and  groaning  much 
louder ;  both  flouting  at  happiness ;  both  magnifying 
the  petty  ills  of  life  into  harrowing  tragedies ;  both 
gifted  with  "  preternatural  intensity  of  sensation  ; " 
Mrs.  C.  nearly  killed  by  the  sting  of  a  wasp ;  Mr.  C. 
driven  nearly  distracted  by  the  crowing  of  a  cock  or 
the  baying  of  a  dog ;  the  wife  hot  tempered,  the  hus- 
band atrabilarious ;  one  caustic,  the  other  arrogant ; 
marrying  from  admiration  rather  than  from  love  — 
could  one  reasonably  predict,  beforehand,  a  very  high 
state  of  domestic  felicity  for  such  a  couple?  and 
would  it  be  just  to  lay  the  blame  all  on  the  husband, 
as  has  generally  been  done  in  this  case  ?  Man  and 
wife  were  too  much  alike ;  the  marriage  was  in  no 
sense  a  union  of  opposites  ;  at  no  point  did  the  two 
sufficiently  offset  and  complement  each  other ;  hence, 
though  deeply  devoted,  they  never  seemed  to  find 
the  repose  and  the  soothing  acquiescence  in  the  soci- 
ety of  one  another  that  marriage  should  bring.  They 
both  had  the  great  virtues,  —  nobleness,  generosity, 
courage,  deep  kindliness,  etc. ;  —  but  neither  of  them 
had  the  small  virtues.  Both  gave  way  under  small 
annoyances,  paltry  cares,  petty  interruptions  —  bugs, 
cocks,  donkeys,  street  noises,  etc.  To  great  emergen- 


A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW.  243 

cies,  to  great  occasions,  they  could  oppose  great  qual- 
ties ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,  but  the  ordinary 
e very-day  hindrances  and  petty  burdens  of  life  fretted 
their  spirits  into  tatters.  Mrs.  C.  used  frequently  to 
return  from  her  trips  to  the  country  with  her  "  mind 
all  churned  into  froth,"  —  no  butter  of  sweet  thought 
or  sweet  content  at  all.  Yet  Carlyle  could  say  of 
her,  "  Not  a  bad  little  dame  at  all.  She  and  I  did 
aye  very  weel  together ;  and  'tweel,  it  was  not  every 
one  that  could  have  done  with  her,"  which  was  doubt- 
less the  exact  truth.  Froude  also  speaks  from  per- 
sonal knowledge  when  he  says :  "  His  was  the  soft 
heart  and  hers  the  stern  one." 

We  are  now  close  on  to  the  cardinal  fact  of  Car- 
lyle's  life  and  teachings,  namely,  the  urgency  of  his 
quest  for  heroes  and  heroic  qualities.  This  is  the 
master  key  to  him ;  the  main  stress  of  his  preaching 
and  writing  is  here.  He  is  the  medium  and  exem- 
plar of  the  value  of  personal  force  and  prowess,  and 
he  projected  this  thought  into  current  literature  and 
politics,  with  the  emphasis  of  gunpowder  and  torpe- 
does. He  had  a  vehement  and  overweening  conceit 
in  man.  A  sort  of  anthropomorphic  greed  and  hun- 
ger possessed  him  always,  an  insatiable  craving  for 
strong,  picturesque  characters,  and  for  contact  and 
conflict  with  them.  This  was  his  ruling  passion  (and 
it  amounted  to  a  passion)  all  his  days.  He  fed  his 
soul  on  heroes  and  heroic  qualities,  and  all  his  liter- 
ary exploits  were  a  search  for  these  things.  Where 
he  found  them  not,  where  he  did  not  come  upon 


244  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  BOW. 

some  trace  of  them  in  books,  in  society,  in  politics, 
he  saw  only  barrenness  and  futility.  He  was  an 
idealist  who  was  inhospitable  to  ideas ;  he  must  have 
a  man,  the  flavor  and  stimulus  of  ample  concrete  per- 
sonalities. "  In  the  country,"  he  said,  writing  to  his 
brother  in  1821,  "  I  am  like  an  alien,  a  stranger  and 
pilgrim  from  a  far  distant  land."  His  faculties  were 
"  up  in  mutiny,  and  slaying  one  another  for  lack  of 
fair  enemies."  He  must  to  the  city,  to  Edinburgh, 
and  finally  to  London,  where,  thirteen  years  later, 
we  find  his  craving  as  acute  as  ever.  "  Oct.  1st. 
This  morning  think  of  the  old  primitive  Edinburgh 
scheme  of  engineer -ship  ;  almost  meditate  for  a  mo- 
ment resuming  it  yet!  It  were  a  method  of  gaining 
bread,  of  getting  into  contact  with  men,  my  two 
grand  wants  and  prayers," 

Nothing  but  man,  but  heroes,  touched  him,  moved 
him,  satisfied  him.  He  stands  for  heroes  and  hero- 
worship,  and  for  that  alone.  Bring  him  the  most 
plausible  theory,  the  most  magnanimous  idea  in  the 
world,  and  he  is  cold,  indifferent,  or  openly  insult- 
ing ;  but  bring  him  a  brave,  strong  man,  or  the  rem- 
iniscence of  any  noble  personal  trait,  —  sacrifice,  obe- 
dience, reverence,  —  and  every  faculty  within  him 
stirred  and  responded.  Dreamers  and  enthusiasts, 
with  their  schemes  for  the  millennium,  rushed  to  him 
for  aid  and  comfort,  and  usually  had  the  door  slammed 
in  their  faces.  They  forgot  it  was  a  man  he  had  ad- 
vertised for,  and  not  an  idea.  Indeed,  if  you  had  the 
blow-fly  of  any  popular  ism  or  reform  buzzing  in 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  245 

your  bonnet,  No.  5  Cheyne  Row  was  the  house  above 
all  others  to  be  avoided ;  little  chance  of  inoculating 
such  a  mind  as  Carlyle's  with  your  notions  —  of  blow- 
ing a  toiling  and  sweating  hero  at  his  work  ?  But 
welcome  to  any  man  with  real  work  to  do  and  the 
courage  to  do  it ;  welcome  to  any  man  who  stood  for 
any  real,  tangible  thing  in  his  own  right.  "  In  God's 
name,  what  art  thou  ?  Not  Nothing,  sayest  thou ! 
Then,  How  much  and  what?  This  is  the  thing  I 
would  know,  and  even  must  soon  know,  such  a  pass 
am  I  come  to !  "  ("  Past  and  Present.") 

Caroline  Fox,  in  her  Memoirs,  tells  how,  in  1842, 
Carlyle's  sympathies  were  enlisted  in  behalf  of  a 
Cornish  miner  who  had  kept  his  place  in  the  bottom 
of  a  shaft,  above  a  blast  the  fuse  of  which  had  been 
prematurely  lighted,  and  allowed  his  comrades  to  be 
hauled  up  when  only  one  could  escape  at  a  time. 
He  inquired  out  the  hero,  who,  as  by  miracle,  had 
survived  the  explosion,  and  set  on  foot  an  enterprise 
to  raise  funds  for  the  bettering  of  his  condition.  In 
a  letter  to  Sterling,  he  said  there  was  help  and  profit 
in  knowing  that  there  was  such  a  true  and  brave 
workman  living,  and  working  with  him  on  the  earth 
at  that  time.  "  Tell  all  the  people,"  he  said,  "  that 
a  man  of  this  kind  ought  to  be  hatched  —  that  it 
were  shameful  to  eat  him  as  a  breakfast  egg ! " 

All  Carlyle's  sins  of  omission  and  commission  gre^w 
out  of  this  terrible  predilection  for  the  individual 
hero ;  this  bent  or  inclination  determined  the  whole 
water-shed,  so  to  speak,  of  his  mind ;  every  rill  and 


246  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

torrent  swept  swiftly  and  noisily  in  this  one  direction. 
It  is  the  tragedy  in  Burns's  life  that  attracts  him ;  the 
morose  heroism  in  Johnson's,  the  copious  manliness 
in  Scott's,  the  lordly  and  regal  quality  in  Goethe. 
Emerson  praised  Plato  to  him ;  but  the  endless  dia- 
lectical hair-splitting  of  the  Greek  philosopher  — 
"  how  does  all  this  concern  me  at  all  ?  "  he  said. 
But  when  he  discovered  that  Plato  hated  the  Athe- 
nian democracy  most  cordially  and  poured  out  his 
scorn  upon  it,  he  thought  much  better  of  him.  His- 
tory swiftly  resolves  itself  into  biography  to  him ; 
the  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men  ebbed  and  flowed  in 
obedience  to  the  few  potent  wills.  We  do  not  find 
him  exploiting  or  elucidating  ideas  and  principles, 
but  moral  qualities,  —  always  on  the  scent,  on  the 
search  of  the  heroic. 

He  raises  aloft  the  standard  of  the  individual  will, 
the  supremacy  of  man  over  events.  He  sees  the 
reign  of  law ;  none  see  it  clearer.  "  Eternal  Law  is 
silently  present  everywhere  and  everywhen.  By  Law 
the  Planets  gyrate  in  their  orbits  ;  by  some  approach 
to  Law  the  street-cabs  ply  in  their  thoroughfares." 
But  law  is  still  personal  will  with  him,  the  will  of 
God.  He  can  see  nothing  but  individuality,  but  con- 
scious will  and  force  in  the  universe.  He  believed 
in  a  personal  God.  He  had  an  inward  ground  of 
assurance  of  it,  in  his  own  intense  personality  and 
vivid  apprehension  of  personal  force  and  genius.  He 
seems  to  have  believed  in  a  personal  devil.  At  least 
he  abuses  "  Auld  Nickie-Ben  "  as  one  would  hardly 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  247 

think  of  abusing  an  abstraction.  However  impracti- 
cal we  may  regard  Carlyle,  he  was  entirely  occupied 
with  practical  questions ;  an  idealist  turned  loose  in 
the  actual  affairs  of  this  world  and  intent  only  on 
bettering  them.  That  which  so  drew  reformers  and 
all  ardent  ideal  natures  to  him  was  not  the  charac- 
ter of  his  conviction,  but  the  torrid  impetuosity  of 
his  belief.  He  had  the  earnestness  of  fanaticism,  the 
earnestness  of  rebellion ;  the  earnestness  of  the  Long 
Parliament  and  the  National  Convention  —  the  only 
two  parliaments  he  praises.  He  did  not  merely  see 
the  truth  and  placidly  state  it,  standing  aloof  and 
apart  from  it ;  but,  as  soon  as  his  intellect  had  con- 
ceived a  thing  as  true,  every  current  of  his  being  set 
swiftly  in  that  direction  ;  it  was  an  outlet  at  once  for 
his  whole  pent-up  energies,  and  there  was  a  flood 
and  sometimes  an  inundation  of  Carlylean  wrath  and 
power.  Coming  from  Goethe,  with  his  marvelous 
insight  and  cool,  uncommitted  moral  nature,  to  the 
great  Scotchman,  is  like  coming  from  dress  parade 
to  a  battle,  from  Melancthon  to  Luther.  It  would 
be  far  from  the  truth  to  say  that  Goethe  was  not  hi 
earnest :  he  was  all  eyes,  all  vision ;  he  saw  every- 
thing, but  saw  it  for  his  own  ends  and  behoof,  for 
contemplation  and  enjoyment.  In  Carlyle  the  vision 
is  productive  of  pain  and  suffering,  because  his  moral 
nature  sympathizes  so  instantly  and  thoroughly  with 
his  intellectual ;  it  is  a  call  to  battle,  and  every  fac- 
ulty is  enlisted.  It  was  this  that  made  Carlyle  akin 
to  the  reformers  and  the  fanatics,  and  led  them  to  ex- 


248  A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW. 

pect  more  of  him  than  they  got.  The  artist  element 
in  him  and  his  vital  hold  upon  the  central  truths  of 
character  and  personal  force,  saved  him  from  any 
such  fate  as  overtook  his  friend  Irving. 

Out  of  Carlyle's  fierce  and  rampant  individualism 
come  his  grasp  of  character  and  his  power  of  human 
portraiture.  It  is  perhaps  not  too  much  to  say  that 
in  all  literature  there  is  not  another  such  a  master 
portrait  painter,  such  a  limner  and  interpreter  of  his- 
torical figures  and  phj-siognomies.  That  power  of 
the  old  artists  to  paint  or  to  carve  a  man,  to  body 
him  forth,  almost  re-create  him,  so  rare  in  the  mod- 
erns, Carlyle  had  in  a  preeminent  degree.  As  an  ar- 
tist it  is  his  distinguishing  gift,  and  puts  him  on  a  par 
with  Rembrandt,  Angelo,  Reynolds,  and  with  the  an- 
tique masters  of  sculpture.  He  could  put  his  finger 
upon  the  weak  point  arid  upon  the  strong  point  of  a 
man  as  unerringly  as  fate.  He  knew  a  man  as  a 
jocky  knows  a  horse.  His  pictures  of  Johnson,  of 
Boswell,  of  Voltaire,  of  Mirabeau,  what  masterpieces ! 
His  portrait  of  Coleridge  will  doubtless  survive  all 
others,  inadequate  as  it  is  in  many  ways ;  one  fears 
also  that  poor  Lamb  has  been  stamped  to  last.  None 
of  Carlyle's  characterizations  have  excited  more  ill- 
feeling  than  this  same  one  of  Lamb.  But  it  was 
plain  from  the  outset  that  Carlyle  could  not  like  such 
a  verbal  acrobat  as  Lamb.  He  doubtless  had  him  or 
his  kind  in  view  when  he  wrote  this  passage  in  "Past 
and  Present "  :  "  His  poor  fraction  of  sense  has  to  be 
perked  into  some  epigrammatic  shape,  that  it  may 


A  SUNDAY   IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  249 

prick  into  me,  —  perhaps  (this  is  the  commonest)  to 
be  topsy-turvied,  left  standing  on  its  head,  that  I  may 
remember  it  the  better  !  Such  grinning  insanity  is 
very  sad  to  the  soul  of  man.  Human  faces  should 
not  grin  on  one  like  masks  ;  they  should  look  on  one 
like  faces  !  I  love  honest  laughter  as  I  do  sunlight, 
but  not  dishonest ;  most  kinds  of  dancing  too,  but  the 
St.  Vitus  kind,  not  at  all ! " 

If  Carlyle  had  taken  to  the  brush  instead  of  to  the 
pen  he  would  probably  have  left  a  gallery  of  portraits 
such  as  this  century  has  not  seen.  In  his  letters, 
journals,  reminiscences,  etc.,  for  him  to  mention  a 
man  is  to  describe  his  face,  and  with  what  graphic 
pen  and  ink  sketches  they  abound.  Let  me  extract 
a  few  of  them.  Here  is  Rousseau's  face,  from  "  He- 
roes and  Hero  Worship  " :  "A  high  but  narrow-con- 
tracted intensity  in  it ;  bony  brows  ;  deep,  straight-set 
eyes,  in  which  there  is  something  bewildered-looking, 
—  bewildered,  peering  with  lynx-eagerness  ;  a  face 
full  of  misery,  even  ignoble  misery,  and  also  of  an 
antagonism  against  that ;  something  mean,  plebeian, 
there,  redeemed  only  by  intensity :  the  face  of  what  is 
called  a  fanatic,  —  a  sadly  contracted  hero ! "  Here  a 
glimpse  of  Dan  ton :  "Through  whose  black  brows 
and  rude,  flattened  face  there  looks  a  waste  energy 
as  of  Hercules."  Camille  Desmoulins :  "  With  the 
face  of  dingy  blackguardism,  wondrously  irradiated 
with  genius,  as  if  a  naphtha  lamp  burned  in  it." 
Through  Mirabeau's  "  shaggy,  beetle  -  brows,  and 
rough-hewn,  seamed,  carbuncled  face  there  look  nat- 


250  A  SUNDAY   IN   CHEYNE   ROW. 

ural  ugliness,  small-pox,  incontinence,  bankruptcy, 
and  burning  fire  of  genius ;  like  comet  fire,  glaring 
fulginous  through  murkiest  confusions." 

On  first  meeting  with  John  Stuart  Mill  he  de- 
scribes him  to  his  wife  as  "  a  slender,  rather  tall,  and 
elegant  youth,  with  small,  clear,  Roman-nosed  face, 
two  small,  earnestly  smiling  eyes ;  modest,  remark- 
ably gifted  with  precision  of  utterance  ;  enthusiastic, 
yet  lucid,  calm  ;  not  a  great,  yet  distinctly  a  gifted, 
and  amiable  youth." 

A  London  editor,  whom  he  met  about  the  same 
time,  he  describes  as  "a  tall,  loose,  lank -haired, 
wrinkly,  wintry,  vehement  -  looking  flail  of  a  man." 
He  goes  into  the  House  of  Commons  on  one  of  his 
early  visits  to  London :  "  Althorp  spoke,  a  thick, 
large,  broad-whiskered,  farmer-looking  man  ;  Hume 
also,  a  powdered,  clean,  burly  fellow  ;  and  Wetherell, 
a  beetle-browed,  sagacious,  quizzical  old  gentleman ; 
then  Davies,  a  Roman-nosed  dandy,"  etc.  He  must 
touch  off  the  portrait  of  every  man  he  sees.  De 
Quincey  "is  one  of  the  smallest  men  you  ever  in 
your  life  beheld ;  but  with  a  most  gentle  arid  sensible 
face,  only  that  the  teeth  are  destroyed  by  opium,  and 
the  little  bit  of  an  under  lip  projects  like  a  shelf." 
Leigh  Hunt :  "  Dark  complexion  (a  trace  of  the  Afri- 
can, I  believe)  ;  copious,  clean,  strong  black  hair, 
beautifully  shaped  head,  fine,  beaming,  serious  hazel 
eyes ;  seriousness  and  intellect  the  main  expression 
of  the  face  (to  our  surprise  at  first)." 

Here  is  his  sketch  of  Tennyson :  "  A  fine,  large 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE   ROW.  251 

featured,  dim-eyed,  bronze  -  colored,  shaggy  -  headed 
man  is  Alfred ;  dusty,  smoky,  free  and  easy,  who  swims 
outwardly  and  inwardly  with  great  composure  in  an 
inarticulate  element  of  tranquil  chaos  and  tobacco- 
smoke.  Great  now  and  then  when  he  does  emerge 
—  a  most  restful,  brotherly,  solid-hearted  man." 

Here  we  have  Dickens  in  1840 :  "  Clear-blue,  intel- 
ligent eyes ;  eyebrows  that  he  arches  amazingly ;  large, 
protrusive,  rather  loose  mouth;  a  face  of  most  extreme 
mobility,  which  he  shuttles  about — eyebrows,  eyes, 
mouth,  and  all  —  in  a  very  singular  manner  while 
speaking.  Surmount  this  with  a  loose  coil  of  com- 
mon-colored hair,  and  set  it  on  a  small  compact  figure, 
very  small,  and  dressed  a  la  D'Orsay  rather  than 
well  —  this  is  Pickwick." 

Here  is  a  glimpse  of  Grote,  the  historian  of  Greece : 
"  A  man  with  straight  upper  lip,  large  chin,  and  open 
mouth  (spout  mouth)  ;  for  the  rest,  a  tall  man,  with 
dull,  thoughtful  brows  and  lank,  disheveled  hair, 
greatly  the  look  of  a  prosperous  Dissenting  minister." 

In  telling  Emerson  whom  he  shall  see  in  London,  he 
says  :  "  Southey's  complexion  is  still  healthy  mahog- 
any brown,  with  a  fleece  of  white  hair,  and  eyes  that 
seem  running  at  full  gallop ;  old  Rogers,  with  his  pale 
head,  white,  bare,  and  cold  as  snow,  with  those  large 
blue  eyes,  cruel,  sorrowful,  and  that  sardonic  shelf 
chin." 

In  another  letter  he  draws  this  portrait  of  Web- 
ster. "  As  a  logic-fencer,  advocate,  or  parliamentary 
Hercules,  one  would  incline  to  back  him,  at  first  sight, 


252  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  SOW. 

against  all  the  extant  world.  The  tanned  complexion ; 
that  amorphous  crag-like  face ;  the  dull  black  eyes 
under  their  precipice  of  brows,  like  dull  anthracite 
furnaces,  needing  only  to  be  blown  ;  the  mastiff-mouth 
accurately  closed ;  I  have  not  traced  as  much  of  silent 
Berserkir  rage,  that  I  remember  of,  in  any  other 
man."  In  writing  his  histories  Carlyle  valued,  above 
almost  anything  else,  a  good  portrait  of  his  hero,  and 
searched  far  and  wide  for  such.  He  roamed  through 
endless  picture-galleries  in  Germany  searching  for  a 
genuine  portrait  of  Frederick  the  Great,  and  at  last, 
chiefly  by  good  luck,  hit  upon  the  thing  he  was  in 
quest  of.  "  If  one  would  buy  an  indisputably  au- 
thentic old  shoe  of  William  Wallace  for  hundreds  of 
pounds,  and  run  to  look  at  it  from  all  ends  of  Scot- 
land, what  would  one  give  for  an  authentic  visible 
shadow  of  his  face,  could  such,  by  art  natural  or  art 
magic,  now  be  had ! "  "  Often  1  have  found  a  Por- 
trait superior  in  real  instruction  to  half  a  dozen  writ- 
ten *  Biographies,'  as  Biographies  are  written  ;  or, 
rather,  let  me  say,  I  have  found  that  the  Portrait  was 
a  small  lighted  candle  by  which  the  Biographies  could 
for  the  first  time  be  read,  and  some  human  interpre- 
tation be  made  of  them." 


II. 

CARLYLE  stands  at  all  times,  at  all  places,  for  the 
hero,  for  power  of  will,  authority  of  character,  ade- 
quacy, and  obligation  of  personal  force.  He  offsets 


A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW.  253 

completely,  and  with  the  emphasis  of  a  clap  of  thun- 
der, the  modern  leveling  impersonal  tendencies,  the 
"  manifest  destinies,"  the  blind  mass  movements,  the 
merging  of  the  one  in  the  many,  the  rule  of  majori- 
ties, the  no-government,  no-leadership,  laissez-faire 
principle.  Unless  there  was  evidence  of  a  potent, 
supreme,  human  will  guiding  affairs,  he  had  no  faith 
in  the  issue  ;  unless  the  hero  was  in  the  saddle,  and 
the  dumb  blind  forces  well  bitted  and  curbed  beneath 
him,  he  took  no  interest  in  the  venture.  The  cause 
of  the  North,  in  the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  failed  to 
enlist  him,  or  touch  him.  It  was  a  people's  war ; 
the  hand  of  the  strong  man  was  not  conspicuous  ;  it 
was  a  conflict  of  ideas,  rather  than  of  personalities ; 
there  was  no  central  and  dominating  figure  around 
which  events  revolved.  He  missed  his  Cromwell, 
his  Frederick.  So  far  as  his  interest  was  aroused 
at  all,  it  was  with  the  South,  because  he  had  heard 
of  the  Southern  slave-driver ;  he  knew  Cuffee  had  a 
master,  and  the  crack  of  his  whip  was  sweeter  music 
to  him  than  the  crack  of  anti-slavery  rifles,  behind 
which  he  recognized  only  a  vague,  misdirected  philan- 
thropy. 

Carlyle  did  not  see  things  in  their  relation,  or  as 
a  philosopher ;  he  saw  them  detached,  and  hence 
more  or  less  in  conflict  and  opposition.  We  accuse 
him  of  wrong-headedness,  but  it  is  rather  inflexible- 
ness  of  mind  and  temper.  He  is  not  a  brook  that 
flows,  but  a  torrent  that  plunges  and  plows.  He 
tried  poetry,  he  tried  novel-writing  in  his  younger 


254  A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW. 

days,  but  he  had  not  the  flexibility  of  spirit  to  suc- 
ceed in  these  things ;  his  moral  vehemence,  his  fury 
of  conviction,  were  too  great. 

Great  is  the  power  of  reaction  in  the  human  body  ; 
great  is  the  power  of  reaction  and  recoil  in  all  or- 
ganic nature.  But  apparently  there  was  no  power 
of  reaction  in  Carlyle's  mind  ;  he  never  reacts  from 
his  own  extreme  views ;  never  looks  for  the  com- 
pensations, never  seeks  to  place  himself  at  the  point 
of  equilibrium,  or  adjusts  his  view  to  other  related 
facts.  He  saw  the  value  of  the  hero,  the  able  man, 
and  he  precipitated  himself  upon  this  fact  with  such 
violence,  so  detached  it  and  magnified  it,  that  it  fits 
with  no  modern  system  of  things.  He  was  appar- 
ently entirely  honest  in  his  conviction  that  modern 
governments  and  social  organizations  were  rushing 
swiftly  to  chaos  and  ruin,  because  the  hero,  the  nat- 
ural leader,  was  not  at  the  head  of  affairs,  —  over- 
looking entirely  the  many  checks  and  compensations, 
and  ignoring  the  fact  that  under  a  popular  govern- 
ment especially,  nations  are  neither  made  nor  un- 
made by  the  wisdom  or  folly  of  their  rulers,  but  by 
the  character  for  wisdom  and  virtue  of  the  mass  of 
their  citizens.  "Where  the  great  mass  of  men  is 
tolerably  right,"  he  himself  says,  "  all  is  right ;  where 
they  are  not  right,  all  is  wrong."  What  difference 
can  it  make  to  America,  for  instance,  to  the  real 
growth  and  prosperity  of  the  nation,  whether  the 
ablest  man  goes  to  Congress  or  fills  the  Presidency. 
or  the  second  or  third  ablest  ?  The  most  that  we  can 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  255 

expect,  in  ordinary  times  at  least,  is  that  the  ma- 
chinery of  universal  suffrage  will  yield  us  a  fair  sam- 
ple of  the  leading  public  man,  —  a  man  who  fairly 
represents  the  average  ability  and  average  honesty 
of  the  better  class  of  the  citizens.  In  extraordinary 
times,  in  times  of  national  peril,  when  there  is  a  real 
strain  upon  the  State,  and  the  instinct  of  self-pres- 
ervation comes  into  play,  then  fate  itself  brings  for., 
ward  the  ablest  men.  The  great  crisis  makes  or  dis- 
covers the  great  man,  discovers  Cromwell,  Frederick, 
Washington,  Lincoln.  Carlyle  leaves  out  of  his  count 
entirely  the  competitive  principle  that  operates  every- 
where in  nature,  —  in  your  field  and  garden  as  well 
as  in  political  States  and  amid  teeming  populations, 
—  natural  selection,  the  survival  of  the  fittest.  Un- 
der artificial  conditions  the  operation  of  this  law  is 
more  or  less  checked ;  but  amid  the  struggles  and 
parturition  throes  of  a  people,  artificial  conditions 
disappear,  and  we  touch  real  ground  at  last.  What 
a  sorting  and  sifting  process  went  on  in  our  army 
during  the  secession  war,  till  the  real  captains,  the 
real  leaders  were  found  ;  not  Fredericks,  or  Welling- 
tons, perhaps,  but  the  best  the  land  afforded. 

The  object  of  popular  government  is  no  more  to 
find  and  elevate  the  hero,  the  man  of  special  and 
exceptional  endowment,  into  power,  than  the  object 
of  agriculture  is  to  take  the  prizes  at  the  agricultural 
fairs.  It  is  one  of  the  things  to  be  hoped  for  and 
aspired  to,  but  not  one  of  the  indispensables.  The 
success  of  free  government  is  attained  when  it  has 


256  A   SUNDAY   IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

made  the  people  independent  of  special  leaders,  and 
secured  the  free  and  full  expression  of  the  popular 
will  and  conscience.  Any  view  of  American  politics, 
based  upon  the  failure  of  the  suffrage  always,  or  even 
generally,  to  lift  into  power  the  ablest  men,  is  partial 
and  unscientific.  We  can  stand,  and  have  stood  any 
amount  of  mediocrity  in  our  appointed  rulers  ;  and 
perhaps  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events  mediocrity 
is  the  safest  and  best.  We  can  no  longer  surrender 
ourselves  to  great  leaders,  if  we  wanted  to.  Indeed 
there  is  no  longer  a  call  for  great  leaders  ;  with  the 
appearance  of  the  people  upon  the  scene,  the  hero 
must  await  his  orders.  How  often  in  this  country 
have  the  people  checked  and  corrected  the  folly  and 
wrong-headedness  of  their  rulers.  It  is  probably 
true,  as  Carlyle  says,  that  "  the  smallest  item  of  hu- 
man Slavery  is  the  oppression  of  man  by  his  Mock- 
Superiors  ; "  but  shall  we  accept  the  other  side  of  the 
proposition,  that  the  grand  problem  is  to  find  govern- 
ment by  our  Real  Superiors  ?  The  grand  problem  is 
rather  to  be  superior  to  all  government,  and  to  pos- 
sess a  nationality  that  finally  rests  upon  principles 
quite  beyond  the  fluctuations  of  ordinary  politics.  A 
people  possessed  of  the  gift  of  Empire,  like  the  Eng- 
lish stock,  both  in  Europe  and  in  America,  are  in 
our  day  beholden  very  little  to  their  chosen  rulers. 
Otherwise  the  English  nation  would  have  been  ex- 
tinct long  ago. 

"  Human  virtue,"  Carlyle  wrote  in  1850,  "  if  we 
went  down  to  the  roots  of  it,  is  not  so  rare.     The 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  257 

materials  of  human  virtue  are  everywhere  abundant 
as  the  light  of  the  sun."  This  may  well  offset  his 
more  pessimistic  statement,  that  "  there  are  fools, 
cowards,  knaves,  and  gluttonous  traitors,  true  only 
to  their  own  appetite,  in  immense  majority  in  every 
rank  of  life  ;  and  there  is  nothing  frightfuller  than 
to  see  these  voting  and  deciding."  If  we  "  went 
down  to  the  roots  of  it,"  this  statement  is  simply  un- 
true. "  Democracy,"  he  says,  "  is,  by  the  nature  of 
it,  a  self-canceling  business,  and  gives,  in  the  long 
run,  a  net  result  of  zero." 

Because  the  law  of  gravitation  is  uncompromising, 
things  are  not,  therefore,  crushed  in  a  wild  rush  to 
the  centre  of  attraction.  The  very  traits  that  make 
Carlyle  so  entertaining  and  effective  as  a  historian 
and  biographer,  namely,  his  fierce,  man  -  devouring 
eyes,  make  him  impracticable  in  the  sphere  of  prac- 
tical politics. 

Let  me  quote  a  long  and  characteristic  passage 
from  Carlyle's  Latter-Day  pamphlets,  one  of  dozens 
of  others,  illustrating  his  misconception  of  universal 
suffrage  :  — 

"Your  ship  cannot  double  Cape  Horn  by  its  excel- 
lent plans  of  voting.  The  ship  may  vote  this  and 
that,  above  decks  and  below,  in  the  most  harmonious, 
exquisitely  constitutional  manner ;  the  ship,  to  get 
round  Cape  Horn,  will  find  a  set  of  conditions  already 
voted  for  and  fixed  with  adamantine  rigor  by  the  an- 
cient Elemental  Powers,  who  are  entirely  careless 
how  you  vo£e.  If  you  can,  by  voting  or  without  vot- 
17 


258  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

ing,  ascertain  these  conditions,  and  valiantly  conform 
to  them,  you  will  get  around  the  Cape  ;  if  you  cannot, 
—  the  ruffian  winds  will  blow  you  ever  back  again  ; 
the  inexorable  Icebergs,  dumb  privy -councilors  from 
Chaos,  will  nudge  you  with  most  chaotic  '  admoni- 
tion ; '  you  will  be  flung  half  frozen  on  the  Patago- 
nian  cliffs,  or  admonished  into  shivers  by  your  iceberg 
councilors  and  sent  sheer  down  to  Davy  Jones,  and 
will  never  get  around  Cape  Horn  at  all !  Unanimity 
on  board  ship ;  —  yes,  indeed,  the  ship's  crew  may  be 
very  unanimous,  which,  doubtless,  for  the  time  being, 
will  be  very  comfortable  to  the  ship's  crew  and  to 
their  Phantasm  Captain,  if  they  have  one ;  but  if  the 
tack  they  unanimously  steer  upon  is  guiding  them 
into  the  belly  of  the  Abyss,  it  will  not  profit  them 
much !  Ships,  accordingly,  do  not  use  the  ballot-box 
at  all ;  and  they  reject  the  Phantasm  species  of  Cap- 
tain. One  wishes  much  some  other  Entities  —  since 
all  entities  lie  under  the  same  rigorous  set  of  laws  — 
could  be  brought  to  show  as  much  wisdom  and  sense 
at  least  of  self-preservation,  the  first  command  of  na- 
ture. Phantasm  Captains  with  unanimous  votings ; 
this  is  considered  to  be  all  the  law  and  all  the  proph- 
ets at  present." 

This  has  the  real  crushing  Carlylean  wit  and  pic- 
turesqueness  of  statement,  but  is  it  the  case  of  de- 
mocracy, of  universal  suffrage  fairly  put  ?  The  eter- 
nal verities  appear  again,  as  they  appear  everywhere 
in  our  author  in  connection  with  this  subject.  They 
recur  in  his  pages  like  "minute  guns,"  as  if  in  de- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  259 

ciding,  by  the  count  of  heads,  whether  Jones  or  Smith 
should  go  to  Parliament  or  to  Congress  was  equiva- 
lent to  sitting  in  judgment  upon  the  law  of  gravita- 
tion. What  the  ship  in  doubling  Cape  Horn  would 
very  likely  do,  if  it  found  itself  officerless,  would  be 
to  choose,  by  some  method  more  or  less  approaching 
a  count  of  heads,  a  captain,  an  ablest  man  to  take 
command,  and  put  the  vessel  through.  If  none  were 
able,  then  indeed  the  case  were  desperate;  with  or 
without  the  ballot-box,  the  abyss  would  be  pretty 
sure  of  a  victim.  In  any  case  there  would  perhaps 
be  as  little  voting  to  annul  the  storms,  or  change  the 
ocean  currents,  as  there  is  in  democracies  to  settle 
ethical  or  scientific  principles  by  an  appeal  to  uni- 
versal suffrage.  But  Carlyle  was  fated  to  see  the 
abyss  lurking  under,  and  the  eternities  presiding  over 
every  act  of  life.  He  saw  everything  in  fearful  gi- 
gantic perspective.  It  is  true  that  one  cannot  loosen 
the  latchet  of  his  shoe  without  bending  to  forces  that 
are  cosmical,  sidereal ;  but  whether  he  bends  or  not, 
or  this  way  or  that,  he  passes  no  verdict  upon  them. 
The  temporary,  the  expedient  —  all  those  devices 
and  adjustments  that  are  of  the  nature  of  scaf- 
folding, and  that  enter  so  largely  into  the  admin- 
istration of  the  coarser  affairs  of  this  world,  were 
with  Carlyle  equivalent  to  the  false,  the  sham,  the 
phantasmal,  and  he  would  none  of  them.  As  the 
ages  seem  to  have  settled  themselves  for  the  present 
and  the  future,  in  all  civilized  countries,  —  and  es- 
pecially in  America,  —  politics  is  little  more  than 


260  A  SUNDAY   IN   CHEYNE   ROW. 

scaffolding ;  it  certainly  is  not  the  house  we  live  in, 
but  an  appurtenance  or  necessity  of  the  house.  A 
government,  in  the  long  run,  can  never  be  better  or 
worse  than  the  people  governed.  In  voting  for  Jones 
for  constable,  am  I  voting  for  or  against  the  unalter- 
able laws  of  the  universe  —  an  act  wherein  the  con- 
sequences of  a  mistake  are  so  appalling  that  voting 
had  better  be  dispensed  with  and  the  selection  of 
constables  be  left  to  the  evolutionary  principle  of 
the  solar  system  ? 

Carlyle  was  not  a  reconciler.  When  he  saw  a 
fact,  he  saw  it  with  such  intense  and  magnifying  eyes, 
as  I  have  already  said,  that  it  became  at  once  irrec- 
oncilable with  other  facts.  He  could  not  and  would 
not  reconcile  popular  government,  the  rule  of  ma- 
jorities, with  what  he  knew  and  what  we  all  know  to 
be  popular  follies,  or  the  proneness  of  the  multitude 
to  run  after  humbugs.  How  easy  for  fallacies,  speci- 
osities,  quackeries,  etc.,  to  become  current.  That  a 
thing  is  popular  makes  a  wise  man  look  upon  it  with 
suspicion.  Are  the  greatest  or  best  books  the  most 
read  books  ?  Have  riot  the  great  principles,  the  great 
reforms,  begun  in  minorities  and  fought  their  way 
against  the  masses  ?  Does  not  the  multitude  gen- 
erally greet  its  saviors  with  "  Crucify  him,  crucify 
him  "  ?  Who  have  been  the  martyrs  and  the  perse- 
cuted in  all  ages  ?  Where  does  the  broad  road  lead 
to,  and  which  is  the  Narrow  Way  ?  "  Can  it  be  proved 
that,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  there  was  ever 
given  a  universal  vote  in  favor  of  the  worthiest  man 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  261 

or  thing?  I  have  always  understood  that  true  worth, 
in  any  department,  was  difficult  to  recognize ;  that 
the  worthiest,  if  he  appealed  to  universal  suffrage, 
would  have  but  a  poor  chance." 

Upon  these  facts  Carlyle  planted  himself,  and  the 
gulf  which  he  saw  open  between  them  and  the  beau- 
ties of  universal  suffrage  was  simply  immense.  With- 
out disputing  the  facts  here,  we  may  ask  if  they  really 
bear  upon  the  question  of  popular  government,  of  a 
free  ballot?  If  so,  then  the  ground  is  clean  shot 
away  from  under  it.  The  world  is  really  governed 
and  led  by  minorities,  and  always  will  be.  The  many, 
sooner  or  later,  follow  the  one.  We  have  all  become 
abolitionists  in  this  country,  some  of  us  much  to  our 
surprise  and  bewilderment ;  we  hardly  know  yet  how 
it  happened  ;  but  the  time  was  when  abolitionists  were 
hunted  by  the  multitude.  Marvelous  to  relate,  also, 
civil  service  reform  has  become  popular  among  our 
politicians.  Something  has  happened ;  the  tide  has 
risen  while  we  slept,  or  while  we  mocked  and  laughed, 
and  away  we  all  go  on  the  current.  Yet  it  is  equally 
true  that,  under  any  form  of  government,  nothing 
short  of  events  themselves,  nothing  short  of  that  com- 
bination of  circumstances  which  we  name  fate  or  for- 
tune, can  place  that  exceptional  man,  the  hero,  at  the 
head  of  affairs.  If  there  are  no  heroes,  then  woe  to 
the  people  who  have  lost  the  secret  of  producing 
great  men. 

The  worthiest  man  usually  has  other  work  to  do, 
and  avoids  politics.  Carlyle  himself  could  not  be  in- 


262  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

duced  to  stand  for  Parliament.  "  Who  would  gov- 
ern," he  says,  "  that  can  get  along  without  govern- 
ing ?  He  that  is  fittest  for  it  is  of  all  men  the  un- 
willingest  unless  constrained."  But  constrained  he 
cannot  be,  yet  he  is  our  only  hope.  What  shall  we 
do?  A  government  by  the  fittest  can  alone  save 
mankind,  yet  the  fittest  is  not  forthcoming.  We  do 
not  know  him  ;  he  does  not  know  himself.  The  case 
is  desperate.  Hence  the  despair  of  Carlyle  in  his 
view  of  modern  politics. 

Who  that  has  read  his  history  of  Frederick  has  not 
at  times  felt  that  he  would  gladly  be  the  subject  of  a 
real  king  like  the  great  Prussian,  a  king  who  was  in- 
deed the  father  of  his  people,  a  sovereign  man  at  the 
head  of  affairs  with  the  reins  of  government  all  in 
his  own  hands,  an  imperial  husbandman  devoted  to 
improving,  extending,  and  building  up  his  nation  as 
the  farmer  his  farm,  and  toiling  as  no  husbandman 
ever  toiled,  a  man  to  reverence,  to  love,  to  fear,  who 
called  all  the  women  his  daughters,  and  all  the  men 
his  sons,  and  whom  to  see  and  to  speak  with  was  the 
event  of  a  life-time ;  a  shepherd  to  his  people,  a  lion 
to  his  enemies.  Such  a  man  gives  head  and  character 
to  a  nation ;  he  is  the  head  and  the  people  are  the 
body ;  currents  of  influence  and  of  power  stream 
down  from  such  a  hero  to  the  life  of  the  humblest 
peasant ;  his  spirit  diffuses  itself  through  the  nation. 
It  is  the  ideal  State ;  it  is  captivating  to  the  imag- 
ination ;  there  is  an  artistic  completeness  about  it. 
Probably  this  is  why  it  so  captivated  Carlyle,  inevi- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  263 

table  artist  that  he  was.  But  how  impossible  to  us  ! 
how  impossible  to  any  English  speaking  people  by 
their  own  action  and  choice ;  not  because  we  are  un- 
worthy such  a  man,  but  because  an  entirely  new 
order  of  things  has  arrived,  and  arrived  in  due  course 
of  time,  through  the  political  and  social  evolution  of 
man.  The  old  world  has  passed  away ;  the  age  of 
the  hero,  of  the  strong  leader,  is  gone.  The  people 
have  arrived,  and  sit  in  judgment  upon  all  who  would 
rule  or  lead  them.  Science  has  arrived,  everything 
is  upon  trial ;  private  judgment  is  supreme.  Our 
only  hope  in  this  country,  at  least  in  the  sphere  of 
governments,  is  in  the  collective  wisdom  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  and,  as  extremes  so  often  meet,  perhaps  this,  if 
thoroughly  realized,  is  as  complete  and  artistic  a  plan 
as  the  others.  "  The  collective  folly  "  of  the  people, 
Carlyle  would  say,  and  perhaps  during  his  whole  life 
he  never  for  a  moment  saw  it  otherwise  ;  never  saw 
that  the  wisdom  of  the  majority  could  be  other  than 
the  no-wisdom  of  blind  masses  of  unguided  men.  He 
seemed  to  forget,  or  else  not  to  know,  that  universal 
suffrage,  as  exemplified  in  America,  was  really  a  sort- 
ing and  sifting  process,  a  search  for  the  wise,  the  truly 
representative  man  ;  that  the  vast  masses  were  not 
asked  who  should  rule  over  them,  but  were  asked 
which  of  two  candidates  they  preferred,  in  selecting 
which  candidates  what  oi  wisdom  and  leadership 
there  was  available  had  had  their  due  weight ;  in 
short,  that  democracy  alone  makes  way  for  and  offers 
a  clear  road  to  natural  leadership.  Under  the  pres- 


264  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

sure  of  opposing  parties,  all  the  political  wisdom  and 
integrity  there  is  in  the  country  stand  between  the 
people,  the  masses,  and  the  men  of  their  choice. 

Undoubtedly  popular  government  will,  in  the  main, 
be  like  any  other  popular  thing,  —  it  will  partake  of 
the  conditions  of  popularity ;  it  will  seldom  elevate 
the  greatest ;  it  will  never  elevate  the  meanest ;  it  is 
based  upon  the  average  virtue  and  intelligence  of  the 
people. 

There  have  been  great  men  in  all  countries  and 
times  who  possessed  the  elements  of  popularity,  and 
would  have  commanded  the  suffrage  of  the  people ; 
on  the  other  hand,  there  have  been  men  who  pos- 
sessed many  elements  of  popularity,  but  few  traits 
of  true  greatness  ;  others  with  greatness,  but  no  ele- 
ments of  popularity.  These  last  are  the  reformers, 
the  innovators,  the  starters,  and  their  greatness  is  a 
discovery  of  after -times.  Popular  suffrage  cannot 
elevate  these  men,  and  if,  as  between  the  two  other 
types,  it  more  frequently  seizes  upon  the  last,  it  is 
because  the  former  is  the  more  rare. 

But  there  is  a  good  deal  of  delusion  about  the 
proneness  of  the  multitude  to  run  after  quacks  and 
charlatans ;  a  multitude  runs,  but  a  larger  multitude 
does  not  run  ;  and  those  that  do  run  soon  see  their 
mistake.  Real  worth,  real  merit,  alone  wins  the 
permanent  suffrage  of  mankind.  In  every  neighbor- 
hood and  community  the  best  men  are  held  in  highest 
regard  by  the  most  persons.  The  world  over,  the 
names  most  fondly  cherished  are  those  most  worthy 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  265 

of  being  cherished.  Yet  this  does  not  prevent  that 
certain  types  of  great  men,  men  who  are  in  advance 
of  their  times  and  announce  new  doctrines  and  faiths, 
will  be  rejected  and  denied  by  their  contemporaries. 
This  is  the  order  of  nature.  Minorities  lead  and  save 
the  world,  and  the  world  knows  them  not  till  long  af- 
terward. 

No  man  perhaps  suspects  how  large  and  important 
the  region  of  unconsciousness  in  him,  what  a  vast, 
unknown  territory  lies  there  back  of  his  conscious 
will  and  purpose,  and  which  is  really  the  controlling 
power  of  his  life.  Out  of  it  things  arise,  and  shape 
and  define  themselves  to  his  consciousness  and  rule 
his  career.  Here  the  influence  of  environment  works ; 
here  the  elements  of  race,  of  family ;  here  the  Time- 
Spirit  moulds  him  and  he  knows  it  not ;  here  Nature, 
or  Fate,  as  we  sometimes  name  it,  rules  him  and 
makes  him  what  he  is. 

In  every  people  or  nation  stretches  this  deep,  un- 
suspected background.  Here  the  great  movements 
begin  ;  here  the  deep  processes  go  on  ;  here  the  des- 
tiny of  the  race  or  nation  really  lies.  In  this  soil 
the  new  ideas  are  sown ;  the  new  man,  the  despised 
leader,  plants  his  seed  here,  and  if  they  be  vital  they 
thrive,  and  in  due  time  emerge  and  become  the  con- 
scious possession  of  the  community. 

None  knew  better  than  Carlyle  himself  that,  who- 
ever be  the  ostensible  potentates  and  law-makers,  the 
wise  do  virtually  rule,  the  natural  leaders  do  lead. 
Wisdom  will  out :  it  is  the  one  thing  in  this  world 


266  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

that  cannot  be  suppressed  or  annulled.  There  is  not 
a  parish,  township,  or  community,  little  or  big,  in  this 
country  or  in  England,  that  is  not  finally  governed, 
shaped,  directed,  built  up  by  what  of  wisdom  there 
is  in  it.  All  the  leading  industries  and  enterprises 
gravitate  naturally  to  the  hands  best  able  to  control 
them.  The  wise  furnish  employment  for  the  unwise, 
capital  flows  to  capital  hands  as  surely  as  water  seeks 
water. 

"  Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave." 

There  never  is  and  never  can  be  any  government 
but  by  the  wisest.  In  all  nations  and  communities 
the  law  of  nature  finally  prevails.  If  there  is  no 
wisdom  in  the  people  there  will  be  none  in  their 
rulers  ;  the  virtue  and  intelligence  of  the  representa- 
tive will  not  be  essentially  different  from  that  of 
his  constituents.  The  dependence  of  the  foolish,  the 
thriftless,  the  improvident,  upon  his  natural  master 
and  director,  for  food,  employment,  for  life  itself,  is 
just  as  real  to-day  in  America  as  it  was  in  the  old 
feudal  or  patriarchal  times.  The  relation  between 
the  two  is  not  so  obvious,  so  intimate,  so  voluntary, 
but  it  is  just  as  vital  and  essential.  How  shall  we 
know  the  wise  man  unless  he  makes  himself  felt,  or 
seen,  or  heard  ?  How  shall  we  know  the  master  un- 
less he  masters  us  ?  Is  there  any  danger  that  the  real 
captains  will  not  step  to  the  front,  and  that  we  shall 
not  know  them  when  they  do  ?  Shall  we  not  know 
a  Luther,  a  Cromwell,  a  Franklin,  a  Washington  ? 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CH 

"  Man,"  says  Carlyle,  "  little  as  he  may  suppose  it, 
is  necessitated  to  obey  superiors  ;  he  is  a  social  being 
in  virtue  of  this  necessity ;  nay,  he  could  not  be  gre- 
garious otherwise ;  he  obeys  those  whom  he  esteems 
better  than  himself,  wiser,  braver,  and  will  forever 
obey  such ;  and  ever  be  ready  and  delighted  to  do 
it."  Think  in  how  many  ways,  through  how  many 
avenues,  in  our  times,  the  wise  man  can  reach  us  and 
place  himself  at  our  head,  or  mould  us  to  his  liking, 
as  orator,  statesman,  poet,  philosopher,  preacher,  edi- 
tor. If  he  has  any  wise  mind  to  speak,  any  scheme 
to  unfold,  there  is  the  rostrum  or  pulpit  and  crowds 
ready  to  hear  him,  or  there  is  the  steam-power  press 
ready  to  disseminate  his  wisdom  to  the  four  corners 
of  the  earth.  He  can  set  up  a  congress  or  a  parlia- 
ment and  really  make  and  unmake  the  laws,  by  his 
own  fireside,  in  any  country  that  has  a  free  press. 
"  If  we  will  consider  it,  the  essential  truth  of  the  mat- 
ter is,  every  British  man  can  now  elect  himself  to 
Parliament  without  consulting  the  hustings  at  all. 
If  there  be  any  vote,  idea,  or  notion  in  him,  or  any 
earthly  or  heavenly  thing,  cannot  he  take  a  pen  and 
therewith  autocratically  pour  forth  the  same  into  the 
ears  and  hearts  of  all  people,  so  far  as  it  will  go  ? " 
("  Past  and  Present.")  Or,  there  is  the  pulpit  every- 
where waiting  to  be  worthily  filled.  What  may  not 
the  real  hero  accomplish  here  ?  "  Indeed  is  not  this 
that  we  call  spiritual  guidance  properly  the  soul  of 
the  whole,  the  life  and  eyesight  of  the  whole?" 
Some  one  has  even  said,  "  Let  me  make  the  songs  of 


268  A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW. 

a  nation  and  I  care  not  who  makes  the  laws  ?  "  Cer- 
tainly the  great  poet  of  a  people  is  its  real  Founder 
and  King.  He  rules  for  centuries  and  rules  in  the 
heart. 

In  more  primitive  times,  and  amid  more  rudely 
organized  communities,  the  hero,  the  strong  man, 
could  step  to  the  front  and  seize  the  leadership  like 
the  buffalo  of  the  plains  or  the  wild  horse  of  the 
pampas ;  but  in  our  time,  at  least  among  English- 
speaking  races,  he  must  be  more  or  less  called  by 
the  suffrage  of  the  people.  It  is  quite  certain  that 
had  there  been  a  seventeenth  or  eighteenth  century 
Carlyle  he  would  not  have  seen  the  hero  in  Crom- 
well, or  in  Frederick,  that  the  nineteenth  century 
Carlyle  saw  in  each.  In  any  case,  in  any  event,  the 
dead  rule  us  more  than  the  living ;  we  cannot  escape 
the  past.  It  is  not  merely  by  virtue  of.  the  sunlight 
that  falls  now,  and  the  rain  and  dew  that  it  brings, 
that  we  continue  here  ;  but  by  virtue  of  the  sunlight 
of  aeons  of  past  ages. 

"  This  land  of  England  has  its  conquerors,  posses- 
sors, which  change  from  epoch  to  epoch,  from  day  to 
day ;  but  its  real  conquerors,  creators,  and  eternal 
proprietors  are  these  following  and  their  representa- 
tives, if  you  can  find  them  :  all  the  Heroic  Souls  that 
ever  were  in  England,  each  in  their  degree ;  all  the 
men  that  ever  cut  a  thistle,  drained  a  puddle  out  of 
England,  contrived  a  wise  scheme  in  England,  did  or 
said  a  true  and  valiant  thing  in  England."  "  Work  ? 
The  quantity  of  done  and  forgotten  work  that  lies 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  269 

silent  under  my  feet  in  this  world,  and  escorts  and 
attends  me  and  supports  and  keeps  me  alive,  where- 
soever I  walk  or  stand,  whatsoever  I  think  or  do, 
gives  rise  to  reflections  !  "  In  our  own  politics,  has 
our  first  President  ever  ceased  to  be  President  ?  Does 
he  not  still  sit  there,  the  stern  and  blameless  patriot, 
uttering  counsel  ? 

Carlyle  had  no  faith  in  the  inherent  tendency  of 
things  to  right  themselves,  to  adjust  themselves  to 
their  own  proper  standards ;  the  conservative  force 
of  nature,  the  checks  and  balances  by  which  her  own 
order  and  succession  is  maintained  ;  the  Darwinian 
principle,  according  to  which  the  organic  life  of  the 
globe  has  been  evolved,  the  higher  and  more  complex 
forms  mounting  from  the  lower,  the  true  palingenesia, 
the  principle  or  power,  name  it  Fate,  name  it  Neces- 
sity, name  it  God,  or  what  you  will,  which  finally  lifts 
a  people,  a  race,  an  age,  and  even  a  community  above 
the  reach  of  choice,  of  accident,  of  individual  will, 
into  the  region  of  general  law.  So  little  is  life  what 
we  make  it,  after  all ;  so  little  is  the  course  of  history, 
the  destiny  of  nations,  the  result  of  any  man's  pur- 
pose, or  direction,  or  will,  so  great  is  Fate,  so  insig- 
nificant is  man !  The  human  body  is  made  up  of  a 
vast  congeries  or  association  of  minute  cells,  each 
with  its  own  proper  work  and  function,  at  which  it 
toils  incessantly  night  and  day,  and  thinks  of  nothing 
beyond.  The  shape,  the  size,  the  color  of  the  body, 
its  degree  of  health  and  strength,  etc.,  no  cell  or 
series  of  cells  decides  these  points  ;  a  law  above  and 


270  A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE   ROW. 

beyond  the  cell  determines  them.  The  final  destiny 
and  summing  up  of  a  nation  is,  perhaps,  as  little 
within  the  conscious  will  and  purpose  of  the  indi- 
vidual citizens.  When  you  come  to  large  masses,  to 
long  periods,  the  law  of  nature  steps  in.  The  day 
is  hot  or  the  day  is  cold,  the  spring  is  late  or  the 
spring  is  early ;  but  the  inclination  of  the  earth's  axis 
makes  the  winter  and  summer  sure.  The  wind  blows 
this  way  and  blows  that,  but  the  great  storms  gyrate 
and  travel  in  one  general  direction.  There  is  a  wind 
of  the  globe  that  never  varies,  and  there  is  the  breeze 
of  the  mountain  that  is  never  two  days  alike.  The 
local  hurricane  moves  the  waters  of  the  sea  to  a 
depth  of  but  a  few  feet ;  but  the  tidal  impulse  goes 
to  the  bottom.  Men  and  communities  in  this  world 
are  often  in  the  position  of  arctic  explorers,  who  are 
making  great  speed  in  a  given  direction,  while  the  ice 
floe  beneath  them  is  making  greater  speed  in  the  op- 
posite direction.  This  kind  of  progress  has  often  be- 
fallen political  and  ecclesiastical  parties  in  this  coun- 
try. Behind  mood  lies  temperament ;  back  of  the 
caprice  of  will  lies  the  fate  of  character ;  back  of 
both  is  the  bias  of  family  ;  back  of  that  the  tyranny 
of  race  ;  still  deeper,  the  power  of  climate,  of  soil,  of 
geology,  the  whole  physical  and  moral  environment. 
Still  we  are  free  men  only  so  far  as  we  rise  above 
these.  We  cannot  abolish  fate,  but  we  can  in  a 
measure  utilize  it.  The  projectile  force  of  the  bullet 
does  not  annul  or  suspend  gravity  ;  it  uses  it.  The 
floating  vapor  is  just  as  true  an  illustration  of  the 
law  of  gravity  as  the  falling  avalanche. 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE   ROW.  271 

Carlyle,  I  say,  had  sounded  these  depths  that  lie 
beyond  the  region  of  will  and  choice,  beyond  the 
sphere  of  man's  moral  accountability ;  but  in  life,  in 
action,  in  conduct,  no  man  shall  take  shelter  here. 
One  may  summon  his  philosophy  when  he  is  beaten 
in  battle,  and  not  till  then.  You  shall  not  shirk  the 
hobbling  Times  to  catch  a  ride  on  the  sure-footed 
Eternities.  "  The  times  are  bad  ;  very  well,  you  are 
there  to  make  them  better."  "  The  public  highways 
ought  not  to  be  occupied  by  people  demonstrating 
that  motion  is  impossible."  ("  Chartism.") 


m. 

CAROLINE  Fox,  in  her  "  Memoirs  of  Old  Friends," 
reports  a  smart  saying  about  Carlyle,  current  in  her 
time,  which  has  been  current  in  some  form  or  other 
ever  since,  —  namely,  that  he  had  a  large  capital  of 
faith  uninvested,  —  carried  it  about  him  as  ready 
money,  I  suppose,  working  capital.  It  is  certainly 
true  that  it  was  not  locked  up  in  any  of  the  various 
social  and  religious  safe  deposits.  He  employed  a 
vast  deal  of  it  in  his  daily  work.  It  took  not  a  little 
to  set  Cromwell  up,  and  Frederick.  Indeed,  it  is 
doubtful  if  among  his  contemporaries  there  was  a 
man  with  so  active  a  faith  —  so  little  invested  in 
paper  securities.  His  religion,  as  a  present  living 
reality,  went  with  him  into  every  question.  He  did 
not  believe  that  the  Maker  of  this  universe  had  re- 


272  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE   ROW. 

tired  from  business,  or  that  he  was  merely  a  sleeping 
partner  in  the  concern.  "  Original  sin,"  he  says, 
"  and  such  like  are  bad  enough,  I  doubt  not;  but  dis- 
tilled siii,  dark  ignorance,  stupidity,  dark  corn-law, 
bastile  and  company,  what  are  they  ?  "  For  creeds, 
theories,  philosophies,  plans  for  reforming  the  world, 
etc.,  he  cared  nothing,  he  would  not  invest  one  mo- 
ment in  them  ;  but  the  hero,  the  worker,  the  doer, 
justice,  veracity,  courage,  these  drew  him,  —  in  these 
he  put  his  faith.  What  to  other  people  were  mere 
obstructions  were  urgent,  pressing  realities  to  Carlyle. 
Every  truth  or  fact  with  him  has  a  personal  inclina- 
tion, points  to  conduct,  points  to  duty.  He  could  not 
invest  himself  in  creeds  and  formulas,  but  in  that 
which  yielded  an  instant  return  in  force,  justice,  char- 
acter. He  has  no  philosophical  impartiality.  He 
has  been  broken  up  ;  there  have  been  moral  convul- 
sions ;  the  rock  stands  on  end.  Hence  the  vehement 
and  precipitous  character  of  his  speech  —  its  wonder- 
ful picturesqueness  and  power.  The  spirit  of  gloom 
and  dejection  that  possesses  him,  united  to  such  an 
indomitable  spirit  of  work  and  helpfulness,  is  very 
noteworthy.  Such  courage,  such  faith,  such  unsha- 
ken adamantine  belief  in  the  essential  soundness  and 
healthfuluess  that  lay  beneath  all  this  weltering  and 
chaotic  world  of  folly  and  evil  about  him,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  such  pessimism  and  despondency,  was  never 
before  seen  in  a  man  of  letters.  I  am  reminded  that 
in  this  respect  he  was  more  like  a  root  of  the  tree  of 
Igdrasil  than  like  a  branch ;  one  of  the  central  and 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW.  273 

master  roots,  with  all  that  implies,  toiling  and  grap- 
pling in  the  gloom,  but  full  of  the  spirit  of  light. 
How  he  delves  and  searches ;  how  much  he  made 
live  and  bloom  again ;  how  he  sifted  the  soil  for  the 
last  drop  of  heroic  blood.  The  Fates  are  there  too 
with  water  from  the  sacred  well.  He  is  quick,  sensi- 
tive, full  of  tenderness  and  pity  ;  yet  he  is  savage 
and  brutal  when  you  oppose  him  or  seek  to  wrench 
him  from  his  holdings.  His  stormy  outbursts  always 
leave  the  moral  atmosphere  clear  and  bracing;  he 
does  not  communicate  the  gloom  and  despondency 
he  feels,  because  he  brings  us  so  directly  and  unfail- 
ingly in  contact  with  the  perennial  sources  of  hope 
and  faith,  with  the  life-giving  and  the  life-renewing. 
Though  the  heavens  fall,  the  orbs  of  truth  and  jus- 
tice fall  not.  Carlyle  was  like  an  unhoused  soul, 
naked  and  bare  to  every  wind  that  blows.  He  felt 
the  awful  cosmic  chill.  He  could  not  take  shelter 
in  the  creed  of  his  fathers,  nor  in  any  of  the  opin- 
ions and  beliefs  of  his  time.  He  could  not  and  did 
not  try  to  fend  himself  against  the  keen  edge  of  the 
terrible  doubts,  the  awful  mysteries,  the  abysmal  ques- 
tions and  duties.  He  lived  and  wrought  on  in  the 
visible  presence  of  God.  This  was  no  myth  to  him, 
but  a  terrible  reality.  How  the  immensities  open 
and  yawn  about  him !  He  was  like  a  man  who 
should  suddenly  see  his  relations  to  the  universe, 
both  physical  and  moral,  in  gigantic  perspective,  and 
never  through  life  lose  the  awe,  the  wonder,  the  fear, 
the  revelation  inspired.  The  veil,  the  illusion  of  the 
18 


274  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE   ROW. 

familiar,  the  commonplace,  is  torn  away.  The  nat- 
ural becomes  the  supernatural.  Every  question,  every 
character,  every  duty,  was  seen  against  the  immensi- 
ties, like  figures  in  the  night  against  a  background  of 
fire,  and  seen  as  if  for  the  first  time.  The  sidereal, 
the  cosmical,  the  eternal,  —  we  grow  familiar  with 
these  or  lose  sight  of  them  entirely.  But  Carlyle 
never  lost  sight  of  them  ;  his  sense  of  them  became 
morbidly  acute,  preternaturally  developed,  and  it  was 
as  if  he  saw  every  movement  of  the  hand,  every  fall 
of  a  leaf,  as  an  emanation  of  solar  energy.  A  "  hag- 
gard mood  of  the  imagination "  (his  own  phrase) 
was  habitual  with  him.  He  could  see  only  the  trag- 
ical in  life  and  in  history.  Events  were  imminent, 
poised  like  avalanches  that  a  word  might  loosen. 
We  see  Jeffries  perpetually  amazed  at  his  earnest- 
ness, the  gradations  in  his  mind  were  so  steep  ;  the 
descent  from  the  thought  to  the  deed  was  so  swift 
and  inevitable,  that  the  witty  advocate  came  to  look 
upon  him  as  a  man  to  be  avoided. 

"  Daily  and  hourly,"  he  says  (at  the  age  of  38), 
"  the  world  natural  grows  more  of  a  world  magical 
to  me ;  this  is  as  it  should  be.  Daily,  too,  I  see 
that  there  is  no  true  poetry  but  in  reality." 

"  The  gist  of  my  whole  way  of  thought,"  he  says 
again,  "  is  to  raise  the  natural  to  the  supernatural." 
To  his  brother  John  he  wrote  in  1832  :  "  I  get  more 
earnest,  graver,  not  unhappier  every  day.  The  whole 
creation  seems  more  and  more  divine  to  me,  the  nat- 
ural more  and  more  supernatural."  His  eighty-five 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  BOW.  275 

years  did  not  tame  him  at  all,  did  not  blunt  his 
conception  of  the  "  fearfulness  and  wonderf ulness  of 
life."  Sometimes  an  opiate  or  an  anaesthetic  operates 
inversely  upon  a  constitution,  and  instead  of  inducing 
somnolence  makes  the  person  wildly  wakeful  and 
sensitive.  The  anodyne  of  life  acted  this  way  upon 
Carlyle,  and  instead  of  quieting  or  benumbing  him 
filled  him  with  portentous  imaginings  and  fresh  cause 
for  wonder.  There  is  a  danger  that  such  a  mind,  if 
it  takes  to  literature,  will  make  a  mess  of  it.  But 
Carlyle  is  saved  by  his  tremendous  gripe  upon  reality. 
Do  I  say  the  ideal  and  the  real  were  one  with  him  ? 
He  made  the  ideal  the  real,  and  the  only  real.  What- 
ever he  touched  he  made  tangible,  actual,  and  vivid. 
Ideas  are  hurled  like  rocks,  a  word  blisters  like  a 
branding  iron,  a  metaphor  transfixes  like  a  javelin. 
There  is  something  in  his  sentences  that  lays  hold 
of  things,  as  the  acids  bite  metals.  His  subtle 
thoughts,  his  marvelous  wit,  like  the  viewless  gases 
of  the  chemist,  combine  with  a  force  that  startles  the 
reader. 

Carlyle  differs  from  the  ordinary  religious  enthu- 
siast in  the  way  he  bares  his  bosom  to  the  storm. 
His  attitude  is  rather  one  of  gladiatorial  resignation 
than  supplication.  He  makes  peace  with  nothing, 
takes  refuge  in  nothing.  He  flouts  at  happiness,  at 
repose,  at  joy.  "  There  is  in  man  a  higher  than  love 
of  happiness ;  he  can  do  without  happiness,  and  in- 
stead thereof  find  blessedness."  "The  life  of  all 
gods  figures  itself  to  us  as  a  sublime  sadness  —  ear- 


276  A  SUNDAY   IN   CHEYNE  ROW. 

nestness  of  infinite  battle  against  infinite  labor.  Our 
highest  religion  is  named  the  *  Worship  of  Sorrow.' 
For  the  Son  of  Man  there  is  no  noble  crown,  well 
worn  or  even  ill  worn,  but  is  a  crown  of  thorns." 
His  own  worship  is  a  kind  of  defiant  admiration  of 
Eternal  Justice.  He  asks  no  quarter,  and  will  give 
none.  He  turns  upon  the  grim  destinies  a  look  as 
undismayed  and  as  uncompromising  as  their  own. 
Despair  cannot  crush  him  ;  he  will  crush  it.  The  more 
it  bears  on,  the  harder  he  will  work.  The  way  to  get 
rid  of  wretchedness  is  to  despise  it ;  the  way  to  con- 
quer the  devil  is  to  defy  him  ;  the  way  to  gain  heaven 
is  to  turn  your  back  upon  it,  and  be  as  unflinching  as 
the  gods  themselves.  Satan  may  be  roasted  in  his  own 
flames ;  Tophet  may  be  exploded  with  its  own  sulphur. 
"  Despicable  biped ! "  (Teufelsdrokh  is  addressing 
himself.)  "  What  is  the  sum  total  of  the  worst  that 
lies  before  thee  ?  Death  ?  Well,  death  ;  and  say  the 
pangs  of  Tophet  too,  and  all  that  the  devil  and  man 
may,  will,  or  can  do  against  thee  !  Hast  thou  not  a 
heart  ?  Canst  thou  not  suffer  whatso  it  be,  and  as  a 
child  of  freedom,  though  outcast,  trample  Tophet  it- 
self under  thy  feet  while  it  consumes  thee  ?  Let  it 
come,  then  ;  I  will  meet  it  and  defy  it."  This  is  the 
*  Everlasting  No  "  of  Teufelsdrokh,  the  annihilation 
of  self.  Having  thus  routed  Satan  with  his  own 
weapons,  the  "Everlasting  Yea"  is  to  people  his 
domain  with  fairer  forms ;  to  find  your  ideal  in  the 
world  about  you.  "Thy  condition  is  but  the  stuff 
thou  art  to  shape  that  same  ideal  out  of ;  what  mat> 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  BOW.  277 

ters  whether  such  stuff  be  of  this  sort  or  of  that,  so 
the  form  thou  give  it  be  heroic,  be  poetic  ? "  Car- 
lyle's  watchword  through  life,  as  I  have  said,  was  the 
German  word  Entsagen,  or  renunciation.  The  per- 
fect flower  of  religion  opens  in  the  soul  only  when 
all  self-seeking  is  abandoned.  The  divine,  the  heroic 
attitude  is  :  "I  ask  not  Heaven,  I  fear  not  Hell ;  I 
crave  the  truth  alone,  whithersoever  it  may  lead." 
"  Truth !  I  cried,  though  the  heavens  crush  me  for 
following  her;  no  falsehood,  though  a  celestial  lub- 
berland  were  the  price  of  apostasy."  The  truth  — 
what  is  the  truth  ?  Carlyle  answers  that  which  you 
believe  with  all  your  soul  and  all  your  might  and 
all  your  strength,  and  are  ready  to  face  Tophet  for, 
—  that,  for  you,  is  the  truth.  Such  a  seeker  was  he 
himself.  It  matters  little  whether  we  agree  that  he 
found  it  or  not.  The  law  of  this  universe  is  such  that 
where  the  love,  the  desire,  is  perfect  and  supreme, 
the  truth  is  already  found.  That  is  the  truth,  not 
the  letter  but  the  spirit ;  the  seeker  and  the  sought 
are  one.  Can  you  by  searching  find  out  God  ?  "  Mo- 
ses cried,  «  When,  O  Lord,  shall  I  find  thee  ?  God 
said,  Know  that  when  thou  hast  sought  thou  hast 
already  found  me.'  "  This  is  Carlyle's  position,  so 
far  as  it  can  be  defined.  He  hated  dogma  as  he 
hated  poison.  No  direct  or  dogmatic  statement  of 
religious  belief  or  opinion  could  he  tolerate.  He 
abandoned  the  church  for  which  his  father  designed 
him,  because  of  his  inexorable  artistic  sense  ;  he  could 
not  endure  the  dogma  that  the  church  rested  upon, 


278  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

the  pedestal  of  clay  upon  which  the  golden  image 
was  reared.  The  gold  he  held  to  as  do  all  serious 
souls,  but  the  dogma  of  clay  he  quickly  dropped. 
"  Whatever  becomes  of  us,"  he  said,  referring  to  this 
subject  in  a  letter  to  a  friend  when  he  was  in  his 
twenty-third  year,  "  never  let  us  cease  to  behave  like 
honest  men." 


IV. 

CARLYLE  had  an  enormous  egoism,  but  to  do  the 
work  he  felt  called  on  to  do,  to  offset  and  withstand 
the  huge,  roaring,  on-rushing  modern  world  as  he  did, 
required  an  enormous  egoism.  In  more  senses  than 
one  do  the  words  applied  to  the  old  prophet  apply  to 
him :  "  For,  behold,  I  have  made  thee  this  day  a 
defended  city,  and  an  iron  pillar,  and  brazen  walls 
against  the  whole  land,  against  the  kings  of  Juda, 
against  the  princes  thereof,  against  the  priests  thereof, 
and  against  the  people  of  the  land."  He  was  a  de- 
fended city,  an  iron  pillar,  and  brazen  wall,  in  the 
extent  to  which  he  was  riveted  and  clinched  in  his 
own  purpose  and  aim  as  well  as  in  his  attitude  of 
opposition  or  hostility  to  the  times  in  which  he  lived. 

Froude,  whose  life  of  Carlyle  in  its  just  completed 
form,  let  me  say  here,  has  no  equal  in  interest  or 
literary  value  among  biographies  since  his  master's 
life  of  Sterling,  presents  his  hero  to  us  a  prophet  in 
the  literal  and  utilitarian  sense,  as  a  foreteller  of  the 
course  of  events,  and  says  that  an  adequate  estimate 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE   ROW.  279 

of  his  work  is  not  yet  possible.  We  must  wait  and 
see  if  he  was  right  about  democracy,  about  Amer- 
ica, universal  suffrage,  progress  of  the  species,  etc. 
"Whether  his  message  was  a  true  message  remains 
to  be  seen."  "  If  he  was  wrong  he  has  misued  his 
powers.  The  principles  of  his  teaching  are  false. 
He  has  offered  himself  as  a  guide  upon  a  road  of 
which  he  had  no  knowledge  ;  and  his  own  desire  for 
himself  would  be  the  speediest  oblivion  both  of  his 
person  and  his  works." 

But  the  man  was  true ;  there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  that,  and  when  such  is  the  case,  the  message 
may  safely  be  left  to  take  care  of  Itself.  We  have 
got  the  full  force  and  benefit  of  it  in  our  own  day  and 
generation,  whether  our  "  cherished  ideas  of  political 
liberty,  with  their  kindred  corollaries,"  prove  illu- 
sions or  not.  All  high  spiritual  and  prophetic  utter- 
ances are  instantly  their  own  proof  and  justification, 
or  they  are  naught.  Does  Mr.  Froude  really  mean 
that  the  prophecies  of  Jeremiah  and  Isaiah  have  be- 
come a  part  of  the  permanent  "  spiritual  inheritance 
of  mankind  "  because  they  were  literally  fulfilled  in 
specific  instances,  and  not  because  they  were  true 
from  the  first  and  always,  as  the  impassioned  yearn- 
ings and  uprisings  and  reachings-forth  of  high  God- 
burdened  souls  at  all  times  are  true  ?  Regarded 
merely  as  a  disturbing  and  overturning  force,  Carlyle 
was  of  great  value.  There  never  was  a  time,  espe- 
cially in  an  era  like  ours,  when  the  opinion  and 
moral  conviction  of  the  race  did  not  need  subsoiling, 


280  A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE  ROW. 

loosening  up  from  the  bottom,  —  the  shock  of  rude, 
scornful,  merciless  power.  There  are  ten  thousand 
agencies  and  instrumentalities  titillating  the  surface, 
smoothing,  pulverizing,  and  vulgarizing  the  top. 
Chief  of  these  is  the  gigantic,  ubiquitous  newspaper 
press,  without  character,  and  without  conscience ; 
then  the  lyceum,  the  pulpit,  the  novel,  the  club  —  all 
cultivating  the  superficies,  and  helping  make  life  shal- 
low and  monotonous.  How  deep  does  the  leading 
editorial  go,  or  the  review  article,  or  the  Sunday  ser- 
mon ?  But  such  a  force  as  Carlyle  disturbs  our  com- 
placency. Opinion  is  shocked,  but  it  is  deepened. 
The  moral  and  intellectual  resources  of  all  men  have 
been  added  to.  But  the  literal  fulfillment  and  verifi- 
cation of  his  prophecies,  —  shall  we  insist  upon  that? 
Is  not  a  prophet  his  own  proof,  the  same  as  a  poet  ? 
Must  we  summon  witnesses  and  go  into  the  justice- 
court  of  fact  ?  The  only  questions  to  be  asked  are  : 
Was  he  an  inspired  man  ?  was  his  an  authoritative 
voice  ?  did  he  touch  bottom  ?  was  he  sincere  ?  was 
he  grounded  and  rooted  in  character  ?  It  is  not  the 
stamp  on  the  coin  that  gives  it  its  value,  though  on 
the  bank-note  it  is.  Carlyle's  words  were  not  prom- 
ises, but  performances ;  they  are  good  now  if  ever. 
To  test  him  by  his  political  opinions  is  like  testing 
Shakespeare  by  his  fidelity  to  historical  fact  in  his 
plays,  or  judging  Lucretius  by  his  philosophy,  or 
Milton  or  Dante  by  their  theology.  Carlyle  was  just 
as  distinctively  an  imaginative  writer  as  were  any  of 
these  men,  and  his  case  is  to  be  tried  on  the  same 


A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW.  281 

grounds.  It  is  his  utterances  as  a  seer  touching  con- 
duct, touching  duty,  touching  nature,  touching  the 
soul,  touching  life,  that  most  concern  us,  —  the  ideal 
to  be  cherished,  the  standard  he  held  to. 

Carlyle  was  a  poet  touched  with  religious  wrath 
and  fervor,  and  he  confronted  his  times  and  country 
as  squarely  and  in  the  same  spirit  as  did  the  old 
prophets.  He  predicts  nothing,  foretells  nothing,  ex- 
cept death  and  destruction  to  those  who  depart  from 
the  ways  of  the  Lord,  or,  in  modern  phrase,  from 
nature  and  truth.  He  shared  the  Hebraic  sense  of 
the  awful  mystery  and  fearfulness  of  life  and  the 
splendor  and  inexorableness  of  the  moral  law.  His 
habitual  mood  was  not  one  of  contemplation  and  en- 
joyment, but  of  struggle  and  "  desperate  hope."  The 
deep  Biblical  word  fear  —  fear  of  the  Lord,  he  knew 
what  that  meant,  as  few  moderns  did. 

He  was  antagonistic  to  his  country  and  his  times, 
and  who  would  have  had  him  otherwise  ?  Let  him 
be  the  hammer  on  the  other  side  that  clinches  the 
pail.  He  did  not  believe  in  democracy,  in  popular 
sovereignty,  in  the  progress  of  the  species,  in  the  po- 
litical equality  of  Jesus  and  Judas :  in  fact,  he  repudi- 
ated with  mingled  wrath  and  sorrow  the  whole  Amer- 
ican idea  and  theory  of  politics ;  yet  who  shall  say 
that  his  central  doctrine  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest, 
fche  nobility  of  labor,  the  exaltation  of  justice,  valor, 
pity,  the  leadership  of  character,  truth,  nobility,  wis- 
dom, etc.,  is  really  and  finally  inconsistent  with,  or 
inimical  to,  that  which  is  valuable  and  permanent  and 


282  A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW. 

formative  in  the  modern  movement  ?  I  think  it  is 
the  best  medicine  and  regimen  for  it  that  could  be 
suggested  —  the  best  stay  and  counterweight.  For 
the  making  of  good  Democrats,  there  are  no  books 
like  Carlyle's,  and  we  in  America  need  especially  to 
cherish  him,  and  to  lay  his  lesson  to  heart. 

It  is  his  supreme  merit  that  he  spoke  with  abso- 
lute sincerity  ;  not  according  to  the  beliefs,  traditions, 
conventionalities  of  his  times,  for  they  were  mostly 
against  him ;  but  according  to  his  private  and  solemn 
conviction  of  what  the  will  of  his  Maker  with  refer- 
ence to  himself  was.  The  reason  why  so  much  writ- 
ing and  preaching  sounds  hollow  and  insincere  com- 
pared with  his  is  that  the  writers  and  speakers  are 
mostly  under  the  influence  of  current  beliefs  or  re- 
ceived traditions ;  they  deliver  themselves  of  what 
they  have  been  taught,  or  what  is  fashionable  and 
pleasant ;  they  draw  upon  a  sort  of  public  fund  of  con- 
viction and  sentiment  and  not  at  all  from  original  pri- 
vate resources,  as  he  did.  It  is  not  their  own  minds 
or  their  own  experience  they  speak  from,  but  a  vague, 
featureless,  general  mind  and  general  experience.  We 
drink  from  a  cistern  or  reservoir  and  not  from  a  foun- 
tain head.  Carlyle  always  takes  us  to  the  source  of 
intense  personal  and  original  conviction.  The  spring 
may  be  a  hot  spring,  or  a  sulphur  spring,  or  a  spout- 
ing spring  —  a  Geyser,  as  Froude  says,  shooting  up 
volumes  of  steam  and  stone,  or  the  most  refreshing 
and  delicious  of  fountains  (and  he  seems  to  have 
been  all  these  things  alternately)  ;  but  in  any  case  it 


A  SUNDAY  IN  CHEYNE   ROW.  283 

was  an  original  source  and  came  from  out  the  depths, 
at  times  from  out  the  Plutonic  depths. 

He  bewails  his  gloom  and  loneliness,  and  the  isola- 
tion of  his  soul  in  the  paths  in  which  he  was  called 
to  walk.  In  many  ways  he  was  an  exile,  a  wanderer, 
forlorn  or  uncertain,  like  one  who  had  missed  the 
road,  —  at  times  groping  about  sorrowfully,  anon, 
desperately  hewing  his  way  through  all  manner  of 
obstructions.  He  presents  the  singular  anomaly  of  a 
great  man,  of  a  towering  and  unique  genius,  such  as 
appears  at  intervals  of  centuries,  who  was  not  in  any 
sense  representative,  who  had  no  precursors  and  who 
left  no  followers, —  a  man  isolated,  exceptional,  tower- 
ing like  a  solitary  peak  or  cone,  set  over  against  the 
main  ranges.  He  is  in  line  with  none  of  the  great 
men,  or  small  men,  of  his  age  and  country.  His 
message  is  unwelcome  to  them.  He  is  an  enormous 
reaction  or  rebound  from  the  all-leveling  tendencies 
of  democracy.  No  wonder  he  thought  himself  the 
most  solitary  man  in  the  world,  and  bewailed  his 
loneliness  continually.  He  was  the  most  solitary. 
Of  all  the  great  men  his  race  and  country  have  pro- 
duced, none  perhaps  were  quite  so  isolated  and  set 
apart  as  he.  None  shared  so  little  the  life  and  aspi- 
rations of  their  countrymen,  or  were  so  little  sustained 
by  the  spirit  of  their  age.  The  literature,  the  relig- 
ion, the  science,  the  politics  of  his  times,  were  alike 
hateful  to  him.  His  spirit  was  as  lonely  as  a  "  peak 
in  Darien."  He  felt  himself  on  a  narrow  isthmus  of 
time,  confronted  by  two  eternities,  — the  eternity  past 


284  A   SUNDAY   IN  CHEYNE  KOW. 

and  the  eternity  to  come.  Daily  and  hourly  he  felt 
the  abysmal  solitude  that  surrounded  him.  Endowed 
with  the  richest  fund  of  sympathy,  and  yet  sympa- 
thizing with  so  little ;  burdened  with  solicitude  for 
the  public  weal,  and  yet  in  no  vital  or  intimate  rela- 
tion with  the  public  he  would  serve  ;  deeply  absorbed 
in  the  social  and  political  problems  of  his  time,  and  yet 
able  to  arrive  at  no  adequate  practical  solution  of 
them ;  passionately  religious,  and  yet  repudiating  all 
creeds  and  forms  of  worship  ;  despising  the  old  faiths, 
and  disgusted  with  the  new ;  honoring  science,  and 
acknowledging  his  debt  to  it,  yet  drawing  back  with 
horror  from  conclusions  to  which  science  seemed  in- 
evitably to  lead  ;  essentially  a  man  of  action,  of  deeds, 
of  heroic  fibre,  yet  forced  to  become  a  "  writer  of 
books  ; "  a  democrat  who  denounced  democracy ;  a 
radical  who  despised  radicalism  ;  "  a  Puritan  without 
a  creed." 

These  things  measure  the  depth  of  his  sincerity ; 
he  never  lost  heart  or  hope,  though  heart  and  hope 
had  so  little  that  was  tangible  to  go  upon.  He  had 
the  piety  arid  zeal  of  a  religious  devotee,  without  the 
devotee's  comforting  belief ;  the  fiery  earnestness  of 
a  reformer,  without  the  reformer's  definite  aims  ;  the 
spirit  of  science,  without  the  scientific  coolness  and 
disinterestedness ;  the  heart  of  a  hero,  without  the 
hero's  insensibilities  ;  he  had  strugglings,  wrestlings, 
agonizings,  without  any  sense  of  victory;  his  foes 
were  invisible  and  largely  imaginary,  but  all  the  more 
terrible  and  unconquerable  on  that  account.  Verily 


A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE  ROW.  285 

was  he  lonely,  heavy  laden,  and  at  best  full  of  "  des- 
perate hope."  His  own  work,  which  was  accom- 
plished with  such  pains  and  labor  throes,  gave  him  no 
satisfaction.  When  he  was  idle,  his  demon  tormented 
him  with  the  cry,  "  Work,  work ; "  and  when  he  was 
toiling  at  his  tasks,  his  obstructions,  torpidities,  and 
dispiritments,  nearly  crushed  him. 

It  is  probably  true  that  he  thought  he  had  some 
special  mission  to  mankind,  something  as  definite  and 
tangible  as  Luther  had.  His  stress  and  heat  of  con- 
viction was  such  as  only  the  great  world  reformers 
have  been  possessed  of.  He  was  burdened  with  the 
sins  and  follies  of  mankind,  and  must  mend  them. 
His  mission  was  to  mend  them,  but  perhaps  in  quite 
other  ways  than  he  thought.  He  sought  to  restore 
an  age  fast  passing,  —  the  age  of  authority,  the  age  of 
the  heroic  leader ;  but  toward  the  restoration  of  such 
age  he  had  no  effect  whatever.  The  tide  of  de- 
mocracy sweeps  on.  He  was  like  Xerxes  whipping 
the  sea.  His  real  mission  he  was  far  less  conscious 
of,  for  it  was  what  his  search  for  the  hero  implied 
and  brought  forward,  that  ,he  finally  bequeathed  us. 
If  he  did  not  make  us  long  for  the  strong  man  to 
rule  over  us,  he  made  us  love  all  manly  and  heroic 
qualities  afresh,  and  as  if  by  a  new  revelation  of 
their  value.  He  made  all  shallownesses  and  shams 
wear  such  a  face  as  they  never  before  wore.  He 
made  it  easier  for  all  men  to  be  more  truthful  and 
earnest.  Hence  his  final  effect  and  value  was  as  a 
fountain  of  fresh  moral  conviction  and  power.  The 

4 


286  A  SUNDAY  IN   CHEYNE   ROW. 

old  stock  truths  perpetually  need  restating  and  re- 
applying  on  fresh  grounds  and  in  large  and  unex- 
pected ways.  And  how  he  restated  them,  and  rein- 
forced them  !  veracity,  sincerity,  courage,  justice, 
manliness,  religiousness,  —  fairly  burning  them  into 
the  conscience  of  his  times.  He  took  the  great  facts 
of  existence  out  of  the  mouths  of  priests,  out  of  their 
conventional  theological  swathing,  where  they  were 
fast  becoming  mummified,  and  presented  them  quick, 
or  as  living  and  breathing  realities. 

It  may  be  added  that  Carlyle  was  one  of  those 
men  whom  the  world  can  neither  make  nor  break,  — 
a  meteoric  rock  from  out  the  fiery  heavens,  bound  to 
hit  hard  if  not  self-consumed,  and  not  looking  at  all 
for  a  convenient  or  a  soft  place  to  alight,  —  a  blazing 
star  in  his  literary  expression,  but  in  his  character 
and  purpose  the  most  tangible  and  unconquerable  of 
men. 

"  Thou,  O  World,  how  wilt  thou  secure  thyself 
against  this  man  ?  Thou  canst  not  hire  him  by  thy 
guineas ;  nor  by  thy  gibbets  and  law  penalties  re- 
strain him.  He  eludes  thee  like  a  Spirit  Thou 
canst  not  forward  him,  thou  canst  not  hinder  him. 
Thy  penalties,  thy  poverties,  neglects,  contumelies : 
behold,  all  these  are  good  for  him." 


AT  SEA. 


AT  SEA. 

ONE  does  net  seem  really  to  have  got  out-of-doors 
till  he  goes  to  sea.  On  the  land  he  is  shut  in  by  the 
hills,  or  the  forests,  or  more  or  less  housed  by  the 
sharp  lines  of  his  horizon.  But  at  sea  he  finds  the 
roof  taken  off,  the  walls  taken  down ;  he  is  no  longer 
in  the  hollow  of  the  earth's  hand,  but  upon  its  naked 
back,  with  nothing  between  him  and  the  immensities. 
He  is  in  the  great  cosmic  out-of-doors,  as  much  so  as 
if  voyaging  to  the  moon  or  to  Mars.  An  astronomic 
solitude  and  vacuity  surround  him ;  his  only  guides 
and  landmarks  are  stellar  ;  the  earth  has  disappeared  ; 
the  horizon  has  gone ;  he  has  only  the  sky  and  its 
orbs  left ;  this  cold,  vitreous,  blue-black  liquid  through 
which  the  ship  ploughs  is  not  water,  but  some  denser 
form  of  the  cosmic  ether.  He  can  now  see  the  curve 
of  the  sphere  which  the  hills  hid  from  him ;  he  can 
study  astronomy  under  improved  conditions.  If  he 
was  being  borne  through  the  interplanetary  spaces  on 
an  immense  shield,  his  impressions  would  not  perhaps 
be  much  different.  He  would  find  the  same  vacuity, 
the  same  blank  or  negative  space,  the  same  empty, 
indefinite,  oppressive  out-of-doors. 

For  it  must  be  admitted  that  a  voyage  at  sea  is 
19 


290  AT  SEA. 

more  impressive  to  th.e  imagination  than  to  the  actual 
sense.  The  world  is  left  behind;  all  standards  of 
size,  of  magnitude,  of  distance,  are  vanished ;  there 
is  no  size,  no  form,  no  perspective ;  the  universe  has 
dwindled  to  a  little  circle  of  crumpled  water,  that 
journeys  with  you  day  after  day,  and  to  which  you 
seem  bound  by  some  enchantment.  The  sky  becomes  a 
shallow,  close-fitting  dome,  or  else  a  pall  of  cloud  that 
seems  ready  to  descend  upon  you.  You  cannot  see 
or  realize  the  vast  and  vacant  surrounding ;  there  is 
nothing  to  define  it  or  set  it  off.  Three  thousand 
miles  of  ocean  space  are  less  impressive  than  three 
miles  bounded  by  rugged  mountain  walls.  Indeed, 
the  grandeur  of  form,  of  magnitude,  of  distance,  of 
proportion  are  only  upon  shore.  A  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic  is  an  eight  or  ten-day  sail  through  vacancy. 
There  is  no  sensible  progress ;  you  pass  no  fixed 
points.  Is  it  the  steamer  that  is  moving,  or  is  it  the 
sea  ?  or  is  it  all  a  dance  and  illusion  of  the  troubled 
brain  ?  Yesterday,  to-day,  and  to-morrow,  you  are  in 
the  same  parenthesis  of  nowhere.  The  three  hun- 
dred or  more  miles  the  ship  daily  makes  is  ideal,  not 
real.  Every  night  the  stars  dance  and  reel  there  in 
the  same  place  amid  the  rigging  ;  every  morning  the 
sun  comes  up  from  behind  the  same  wave,  and  stag- 
gers slowly  across  the  sinister  sky.  The  eye  becomes 
a-hunger  for  form,  for  permanent  lines,  for  a  horizon 
wall  to  lift  up  and  keep  off  the  sky,  and  give  it  a 
sense  of  room.  One  understands  why  sailors  become 
an  imaginative  and  superstitious  race ;  it  is  the  reac- 


AT  SEA.     ^^       I^i    291 


tion  from  this  narrow  horizon  in  which  they  are  pent, 
—  this  ring  of  fate  surrounds  and  oppresses  them. 
They  escape  by  invoking  the  aid  of  the  supernatural. 
In  the  sea  itself  there  is  far  less  to  stimulate  the  im- 
agination than  in  the  varied  forms  and  colors  of  the 
land.  How  cold,  how  merciless,  how  elemental  it 
looks ! 

The  only  things  that  look  familiar  at  sea  are  the 
clouds.  These  are  messengers  from  home,  and  how 
weary  and  disconsolate  they  appear,  stretching  out 
along  the  horizon,  as  if  looking  for  a  hill  or  moun- 
tain-top to  rest  upon,  —  nothing  to  hold  them  up,  — 
a  roof  without  walls,  a  span  without  piers.  One  gets 
the  impression  that  they  are  grown  faint,  and  must 
presently,  if  they  reach  much  farther,  fall  into  the 
sea.  But  when  the  rain  came,  it  seemed  like  mock- 
ery, or  irony  on  the  part  of  the  clouds.  Did  one 
vaguely  believe,  then,  that  the  clouds  would  respect 
the  sea,  and  withhold  their  needless  rain  ?  No,  they 
treated  it  as  if  it  was  a  mill-pond,  or  a  spring-run,  too 
insignificant  to  make  any  exceptions  to. 

One  bright  Sunday,  when  jthe  surface  of  the  sea 
was  like  glass,  a  long  chain  of  cloud-mountains  lay  to 
the  south  of  us  all  day,  while  the  rest  of  the  sky  was 
clear.  How  they  glowed  in  the  strong  sunlight,  their 
summits  shining  like  a  bouquet  of  full  moons,  and 
making  a  broad,  white,  or  golden  path  upon  the  wa- 
ter !  They  came  out  of  the  southwest,  an  endless 
procession  of  them,  and  tapered  away  in  the  east. 
They  were  the  piled,  convoluted,  indolent  clouds  of 


292  AT  SEA. 

midsummer  —  thunder-clouds  that  had  retired  from 
business  ;  the  captains  of  the  storm  in  easy  undress. 
All  day  they  filed  along  there,  keeping  the  ship  com- 
pany. How  the  eye  reveled  in  their  definite,  yet 
ever-changing,  forms  !  Thejrjjja^er  or  base  line  was 
as  straight  and  continuous  as  the  rim  of  the  ocean. 
The  substratum  of  air  upon  which  they  rested  was 
like  a  uniform  layer  of  granite  rock,  invisible,  but 
all-resisting;  not  one  particle  of  these  vast  cloud- 
mountains,  so  broken  and  irregular  in  their  summits, 
sank  below  this  aerial  granite  boundary.  The  equi- 
librium of  the  air  is  frequently  such  that  the  under 
surface  of  the  clouds  is  like  a  ceiling.  It  is  a  fair- 
weather  sign,  whether  upon  the  sea  or  upon  the  land. 

e  may  frequently  see  it  in  a  mountainous  district, 
when  the  fog-clouds  settle  down,  and  blot  out  all  the 
tops  of  the  mountains  without  one  fleck  of  vapor  go- 
ing below  a  given  line  which  runs  above  every  val- 
ley, as  uniform  as  the  sea-level)  It  is  probable  that 
in  fair  weather  the  atmosphere  always  lies  in  regular 
strata  in  this  way,  and  that  it  is  the  displacement 
and  mixing  up  of  these  by  some  unknown  cause  that 
produces  storms. 

As  the  sun  neared  the  horizon  these  cloud  masses 
threw  great  blue  shadows  athwart  each  other,  which 
afforded  the  eye  a  new  pleasure. 

Late  one  afternoon  the  clouds  assumed  a  still  more 
friendly  and  welcome  shape.  A  long,  purple,  irreg- 
ular range  of  them  rose  up  from  the  horizon  in  the 
northwest,  exactly  simulating  distant  mountains.  The 


AT   SEA.  293 

sun  sank  behind  them,  and  threw  out  great  spokes 
of  light  as  from  behind  my  native  Catskills.  Then 
gradually  a  low,  wooded  shore  came  into  view  along 
their  base.  It  proved  to  be  a  fog-bank  lying  low 
upon  the  water,  but  it  copied  exactly,  in  its  forms 
and  outlines,  a  flat,  umbrageous  coast.  You  could  see 
distinctly  where  it  ended,  and  where  the  water  began. 
I  sat  long  on  that  side  of  the  ship,  and  let  my  willing 
eyes  deceive  themselves.  I  could  not  divest  myself 
of  the  comfortable  feeling  inspired  by  the  prospect. 
It  was  to  the  outward  sense  what  dreams  and  rever- 
ies are  to  the  inward.  That  blind,  instinctive  love  of 
the  land,  —  I  did  not  know  how  masterful-  and  invol- 
untary the  impulse  was,  till  I  found  myself  warming 
up  toward  that  phantom  coast.  The  empty  void  of 
the  sea  was  partly  filled,  if  only  with  a  shadow.  The 
inhuman  desolation  of  the  ocean  was  blotted  out  for 
a  moment,  in  that  direction  at  least.  What  phantom- 
huggers  we  are  upon  sea  or  upon  land.  It  made  no 
difference  that  I  knew  this  to  be  a  sham  coast.  I 
could  feel  its  friendly  influence  all  the  same,  even 
when  my  back  was  turned. 

In  summer,  fog  seems  to  lie  upon  the  Atlantic  in 
great  shallow  fleeces,  looking,  I  dare  say,  like  spots 
of  mould  or  mildew  from  an  elevation  of  a  few  miles. 
These  fog-banks  are  produced  by  the  deep  cold  cur- 
rents rising  to  the  surface,  and  coming  in  contact 
with  the  warmer  air.  One  may  see  them  far  in  ad- 
vance, looking  so  shallow  that  it  seems  as  if  the  great 
steamer  must  carry  her  head  above  them.  But  she 


294  AT  SEA. 

does  not  quite  do  it.  When  she  enters  this  obscurity 
there  begins  the  hoarse  bellowing  of  her  great  whis- 
tle. As  one  dozes  in  his  berth  or  sits  in  the  cabin 
reading,  there  comes  a  vague  impression  that  we  are 
entering  some  port  or  harbor,  the  sound  is  so  wel- 
come, and  is  so  suggestive  of  the  proximity  of  other 
vessels.  But  only  once  did  our  loud  and  repeated 
hallooing  awaken  any  response.  Everybody  heard 
the  answering  whistle  out  of  the  thick  obscurity 
ahead,  and  was  on  the  alert.  Our  steamer  instantly 
slowed  her  engines  and  redoubled  her  tootings.  The 
two  vessels  soon  got  the  bearing  of  each  other,  and 
the  stranger  passed  us  on  the  starboard  side,  the 
hoarse  voice  of  her  whistle  alone  revealing  her  course 
to  us. 

Late  one  afternoon,  as  we  neared  the  Banks,  the 
word  spread  on  deck  that  the  knobs  and  pinnacles 
of  a  thunder-cloud  sunk  below  the  horizon,  and  that 
deeply  and  sharply  notched  the  western  rim  of  the 
sea,  were  icebergs.  The  captain  was  quoted  as  author- 
ity. He  probably  encouraged  the  delusion.  The  jaded 
passengers  wanted  a  new  sensation.  Everybody  was 
willing,  even  anxious,  to  believe  them  icebergs,  and 
some  persons  would  have  them  so,  and  listened  coldly 
and  reluctantly  to  any  proof  to  the  contrary.  What 
we  want  to  believe,  what  it  suits  our  convenience,  or 
pleasure,  or  prejudice,  to  believe,  one  need  not  go  to 
sea  to  learn  what  slender  logic  will  incline  us  to  be- 
lieve. To  a  firm,  steady  gaze,  these  icebergs  were 
seen  to  be  momently  changing  their  formr  new 


AT   SEA.  295 

chasms  opening,  new  pinnacles  rising ;  but  these  ap- 
pearances were  easily  accounted  for  by  the  credu- 
lous ;  the  ice  mountains  were  rolling  over,  or  split- 
ting asunder.  One  of  the  rarest  things  in  the  average 
cultivated  man  or  woman  is  the  capacity  to  receive 
and  weigh  evidence  touching  any  natural  phenome- 
non, especially  at  sea.  If  the  captain  had  deliberately 
said  that  the  shifting  forms  there  on  the  horizon  were 
only  a  school  of  whales  playing  at  leap-frog,  all  the 
women  and  half  the  men  among  the  passengers  would 
have  believed  him. 

In  going  to  England  in  early  May,  we  encountered 
the  fine  weather,  the  warmth,  and  the  sunshine  as  of 
June  that  had  been  "  central  "  over  the  British  Isl- 
ands for  a  week  or  more,  five  or  six  hundred  miles 
from  shore.  We  had  come  up  from  lower  latitudes, 
and  it  was  as  if  we  had  ascended  a  hill  and  found 
summer  at  the  top,  while  a  cold,  backward  spring  yet 
lingered  in  the  valley.  But  on  our  return  in  early 
August,  the  positions  of  spring  and  summer  were  re- 
versed. Scotland  was  cold  and  rainy,  and  for  several 
days  at  sea  you  could  in  the  distance  hardly  tell  the 
sea  from  the  sky,  all  was  so  gray  and  misty.  In  mid- 
Atlantic  we  ran  into  the  American  climate.  The 
great  continent,  basking  there  in  the  western  sun, 
and  glowing  with  midsummer  heat,  made  itself  felt 
to  the  centre  of  this  briny  void.  The  sea  detached 
itself  sharply  from  the  sky,  and  became  like  a  shield 
of  burnished  steel,  which  the  sky  surrounded  like  a 
dome  of  glass.  For  four  successive  nights  the  sun 


296  AT  SEA. 

sank  clear  in  the  wave,  sometimes  seeming  to  melt 
and  mingle  with  the  ocean.  One  night  a  bank  of 
mist  seemed  to  impede  his  setting.  He  lingered  a 
long  while  partly  buried  in  it,  then  slowly  disap- 
peared as  through  a  slit  in  the  vapor,  which  glowed 
red-hot,  a  mere  line  of  fire,  for  some  moments  after- 
ward. 

As  we  neared  home  the  heat  became  severe.  We 
were  going  down  the  hill  into  a  fiery  valley.  Vast 
stretches  of  the  sea  were  like  glass  bending  above  the 
long,  slow  heaving  of  the  primal  ocean.  Sword-fish 
lay  basking  here  and  there  on  the  surface,  too  lazy  to 
get  out  of  the  way  of  the  ship  :  — 

"  The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played." 

Occasionally  a  whale  would  blow,  or  show  his  glis- 
tening back,  attracting  a  crowd  to  the  railing.  One 
morning  a  whale  plunged  spitefully  through  the  track 
of  the  ship  but  a  few  hundred  yards  away. 

But  the  prettiest  sight  in  the  way  of  animated  na- 
ture was  the  shoals  of  dolphins  occasionally  seen  dur- 
ing these  brilliant  torrid  days,  leaping  and  sporting, 
and  apparently  racing  with  the  vessel.  They  would 
leap  in  pairs  from  the  glassy  surface  of  one  swell  of 
the  steamer  across  the  polished  chasm  into  the  next 
ewell,  frisking  their  tails  and  doing  their  best  not  to 
be  beaten.  They  were  like  fawns  or  young  kine 
sporting  in  a  summer  meadow.  It  was  the  only  touch 
of  mirth,  or  youth  and  jollity,  I  saw  in  the  grim  sea. 


AT  SEA.  297 

Savagery  and  desolation  make  up  the  prevailing  ex- 
pression here.  The  sea-fowls  have  weird  and  discon- 
solate cries,  and  appear  doomed  to  perpetual  solitude. 
But  these  dolphins  know  what  companionship  is,  and 
are  in  their  own  demesne.  When  one  sees  them 
bursting  out  of  the  waves,  the  impression  is  that 
school  is  just  out ;  there  come  the  boys,  skipping  and 
laughing,  and,  seeing  us  just  passing,  cry  to  one  an- 
other :  "  Now  for  a  race  !  Hurrah,  boys  !  We  can 
beat  'em ! " 

One  notices  any  change  in  the  course  of  the  ship 
by  the  stars  at  night.  For  nearly  a  week  Venus  sank 
nightly  into  the  sea  far  to  the  north  of  us.  Our 
course  coming  home  is  south-southwest.  Then,  one 
night,  as  you  promenade  the  deck,  you  see,  with  a 
keen  pleasure,  Venus  through  the  rigging  dead  ahead. 
The  good  ship  has  turned  the  corner,  she  has  scented 
New  York  harbor,  and  is  making  straight  for  it,  with 
New  England  far  away  there  on  her  right.  Now 
sails  and  smoke-funnels  begin  to  appear.  All  ocean 
paths  converge  here :  full-rigged  ships,  piled  with  can- 
vas, are  passed,  rocking  idly  upon  the  polished  sur- 
face ;  sails  are  seen  just  dropping  below  the  horizon, 
phantom  ships  without  hulls,  while  here  and  there  the 
black  smoke  of  some  steamer  tarnishes  the  sky.  Now 
we  pass  steamers  that  left  New  York  but  yesterday  ; 
the  City  of  Rome  —  looking,  with  her  three  smoke- 
stacks and  her  long  hull,  like  two  steamers  together 
—  creeps  along  the  southern  horizon,  just  ready  to 
vanish  behind  it.  Now  she  stands  in  the  reflected 


298  AT  SEA. 

light  of  a  great  white  cloud  which  makes  a  bright 
track  upon  the  water  like  the  full  moon.  Then  she 
slides  on  into  the  dim  and  even  dimmer  distance,  and 
we  slide  on  over  the  tropic  sea,  and,  by  a  splendid 
run,  just  catch  the  tide  at  the  moment  of  its  full,  early 
the  next  morning,  and  pass  the  bar  off  Sandy  Hook 
without  a  moment  of  time  or  an  inch  of  water  to 
spare. 


<P 


U.C.  BERKELEY  UBWWES 


f 


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